Skip to main content

Full text of "Twilight Zone v04n02 (1984 06) (noads)"

See other formats 


LOOZe  Kl^  3Ntst3A3HD 

J03  13  3ni^)  cm 

c)aC  IDSl  3DIW  lySBTV 

OCO  3NDZ  bOONXm  33az.0028 


Classic  Horror  • A Space  Odyssey  • Photos  from  the  Dark  Side 

I ^ r-A  / Rod  SCTlingV  „ __j7=f7^ 


Magazine 


TV’s  Wildest  Plane  Ride! 
William  Shatner  In 


John  Sayles 


The  Screen’s 
Boy  Wonder 
Films  a 
Black  E.T. 


o 


N 


T 


E 


RodSeriings 


N'fagazine 


FICTION  May/ June  1984 


Andr^  Weih^  31  Distant:  Signals 


John  Sladek  39  Absent  Frie^ 


Jim  Cort  46  Pookas 


Stanley  Wiater  49  End  of  the  Line 


E.F.  Benson  72  The  Horror  Horn 


R.H.  Benson  79  The  Watcher 


FEATURES 


8 In  the  Twilight  Zone 


Gerald  Peary  26  TZ  Interview:  john  Sayles 


John  Morressy  44  The  Universal  All-Purpose  Fanta  sy  Quiz 


51  1984'  and  Beyond 


Joseph  Payne  Brennan  and  Arthur  Paxton  55  Intimations  of  Mortality 


Feggo  62  Beyond  the  Zone 


Mike  Ashley  63  The  Essential  Writers:  Blood  Brothers 


David  J.  Schow  81  'The  Outer  Limits':  Monsters,  Incorporated 


David  J.  Schow  and  Jeffrey  Frentzen  84  Show-by-Show  Guide  to  'The  Outer  Limits':  Part  Three 


Richard  Matheson  89  TZ  Classic  Teleplay:  'Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet' 


102  TZ  Classifieds 


OTHER  DIMENSIONS 


Thomas  M.  Disch  10  Books 


Gahan  Wilson  14  Screen 


Ron  Goulart  18  Nostalgia:  Decade  of  the  Big  Bugs 


Cover  art  by  Carl  Wesley 


r > 


- La 


0. 


Photo  credits:  Brennon/Poul  R.  Gagne;  Cort/Sue  Bezzegh;  Wiater/lris  Arroyo. 


IN  THE  TWILIG 

PaKanoia  PrefeiYed, 
But  Not  Necessary 


Even  if  you  lead  the  most 
sheltered  of  lives,  there  are  moments 
when,  like  it  or  not,  you  find 
yourself  starring  in  what  might  turn 
out  to  be  a horror  movie.  You've  just 
seen  a revival  of  Psycho,  and  that 
night,  when  you're  taking  a shower, 
you  think,  Hmmm,  what  if  ...  ? And 
maybe  you  rinse  the  soap  out  of 
your  eyes  a little  bit  faster  than 
usual.  Or  you  stop  to  pick  up  a 
hitchhiker,  and  as  he  opens  the  door 
you  suddenly  remember  all  the 
Menacing  Hitchhiker  stories  you've 
heard  (including  that  TZ  episode  "The 
Hitch-Hiker,"  featured  in  our  next 
issue);  and  maybe,  if  it's  nighttiijie, 
you  remember  the  way  Dan 
Aykroyd's  face  changed  in  Twilight 
Zone— The  Movie.  Then  there's  the 
stranger  in  the  elevator  who  probably 
isn't  a psychopath,  but  who  begins 
to  look  like  one  when  the  other 
passengers  step  out  and  you  find 
yourself  alone  with  him;  and  the  taxi 
driver  who,  now  that  you're  inside 
his  cab  and  have  glimpsed  his  face  in 
the  mirror,  just  might  turn  out  to  be 
a maniac  . . . 

It's  worse  if  you're  a paranoid,  of 
course  — or  maybe  a professional 
horror  writer;  then  even  bright 
sunshine  can  be  fraught  with  terror 
(as  Ramsey  Campbell  had  a character 
realize  in  his  aptly -titled  Demons 
by  Daylight).  But  you  don't  have  to 
be  any  of  these  things,  or  even 
particularly  xenophobic;  all  you 
need,  as  Rod  Serling  used  to  say, 
is  imagination. 

The  stories  in  our  last  issue  made 
something  fantastic  out  of  getting  a 
haircut  and  something  horrifying  out 
of  hiring  a baby-sitter.  This  issue 
offers  still  another  example  of  Horror 
in  Everyday  Life:  the  subway  ride. 

The  trip  comes  courtesy  STANLEY 
WIATER,  whose  first  published  story 
won  a Boston  Phoenix  competition 
judged  by  Stephen  King.  (It  later 
appeared  in  Mike  Shayne.)  Wiater  has 
been  a frequent  contributor  to  the 
movie  magazine  Fangoria  ("Monsters, 
Aliens,  Bizarre  Creatures")  and  has 
coined  a new  term,  cineteratology,  to 
describe  his  favorite  genre. 


While  on  matters  teratological, 
let  me  add  that  this  issue  of  TZ 
brings  you  face  to  face  with  a 
watcher,  an  extremely  abominable 
snow-woman,  and  a genuine  pooka,  the 
latter  in  a characteristically  charming 
(and  characteristically  brief)  tale  by 
JIM  CORT,  who  first  turned  up  in 
these  pages  with  'The  Reaper"  (Sept. 
'82).  "Dear  Ted,"  he  wrote  recently,  "I 
have  been  giving  some  thought  to  the 
illustration  for  Pookas.  As  I mentioned 
before,  Jennifer  Anne  in  the  story  is 
my  daughter  Katie  Lin.  So  far  as  I 
know,  she  is  the  only  one  who  knows 
what  pookas  really  look  like.  I have 
asked  her  to  draw  a picture  of  a pooka 
in  a silly  hat,  which  I enclose.  I'm  sure 
you  have  a fine  artist  in  mind  to 
illustrate  Pookas,  and  I'm  sure  he  or 
she  will  do  an  excellent  job.  However, 
in  the  interest  of  accuracy,  I would  like 
you  to  consider  including  the  enclosed 
picture  somewhere  in  the  same  issue. 
Katie  would  like  it,  too."  That's  Katie's 
handiwork,  right  next  to  her  dad. 

It  has  often  been  said,  usually  by 
critics  with  a psychoanalytic  bent, 
that  all  horror  fiction  is  merely  an 
expression  of  sexual  fears.  I don't 
know  whether  or  not  this  is  true  — 

I've  already  got  enough  to  worry 
about,  thank  you  — but  anyone 
determined  to  make  such  a case  could 
certainly  find  support  in  The  Horror 
Horn  by  E.F.  BENSON.  The  story's 
sole  female  is  filthy,  hairy,  hideously 
ugly,  and  given  to  eating— no,  worse, 
raping  men.  Truly  a misogynist's 
nightmare  . . . and  Benson  was  truly 
a misogynist.  He  and  his  brothers 
R.H.  and  A.C.,  all  quintessentially 
English  bachelors  with  a passion  for 
books,  are  profiled  in  this  issue  by 
MIKE  ASHLEY,  himself  an 
indefatigable  English  bibliophile  (albeit 
a happily  married  one)  who's  damned 
near  as  prolific  as  the  Bensons  were. 
Among  his  recent  projects:  The  Index 
to  Weird  Fantasy  Magazines,  which 
covers  more  than  1400  issues  through 
the  end  of  1982  — including  the  first 
twenty-one  issues  of  Twilight  Zone. 

In  September  1981  we  gave  you 
a preview  of  JOHN  SLADEK's  comic 
novel  Roderick,  a sort  of  robot 


Wiater  Ashley 


Candide,  and  ir  last  December's  "Ursa 
Minor"  he  concocted  the  Ultimate 
Bear  Story.  Now  back  in  the  U.S. 
after  many  years  in  Britain,  he's  also 
back  to  robots  — in  the  forthcoming 
novel  Tik-Tok,  about  a homicidal  tin- 
man, and  in  this  issue's  Absent 
Friends.  In  Distant  Signals,  Toronto's 
ANDREW  WEII'JER  ("Takeover  Bid," 
TZ  June  '83)  offers  a uniquely 
American  blend  of  cowboys  and  old 
television.  Judging  from  this  tale,  it's 
clear  that  Weiner  could  write  his  own 
tv  series  single-handed.  JOHN 
MORRESSY  ("Final  Version,"  TZ  Jan. 
'82)  teaches  at  franklin  Pierce  College 
in  New  Hampsfiire  and  admits  that  in 
his  own  stories  and  novels,  he's  been 
guilty  of  some  of  the  things  he 
satirizes  so  deftly  in  The  Universal 
All-Purpose  Fantasy  Quiz.  Bostonian 
GERALD  PEARY  is  a contributing 
editor  of  American  Film  and  a 
columnist  for  the  Canadian  magazine 
Flare.  He's  written  for  the  Boston 
Globe,  the  L.A.  Times,  and  points 
in  between. 

Though  he's  better  known  today 
for  his  supema:ural  fiction  (it's 
appeared  in  everything  from  Weird 
Tales  to  Esquire),  JOSEPH  PAYNE 
BRENNAN  may  be  remembered  in 
times  to  come  as  a poet.  The 
selection  printed  here— which  we've 
paired  with  sortie  eerily  atmospheric 
montages  by  New  York  photographer 
ARTHUR  PAXTON -comes  from 
Brennan's  latest’ collection.  Creep  to 


8 Twilight  Zone 


Weiner 


Brennan 


Death,  published  by  Donald  M. 

Grant  of  West  Kingston,  Rhode 
Island.  The  book  takes  its  title  and 
tone  from  a passage  in  Death's  Final 
Conquest  by  James  Shirley:  "Early  or 
late/They  stoop  to  fate, /And  must 
give  up  their  murmuring  breath/ When 
they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death." 


AN  OFFER  YOU  lEAN'T  REFUSE 


Tom  Schiff,  our  controller,  is 
always  pestering  me  with  ideas. 

"Listen,  Ted,  you  really  should  fly 
out  to  Cleveland  and  meet  the 
wholesalers."  (Right,  Tom.  Next 
November,  without  fail.)  "Maybe  we 
should  sponsor  a Tvnlight  Zone 
writing  seminar."  (Whose  desk  can  I 
stick  this  one  on?)  "\bu  know,  we'd 
save  a lot  of  money  on  stationery  if  you 
just  wrote  your  replies  on  the  bottoms 
of  the  original  letters."  Stuff  like  that. 

The  other  day  he  came  in  with  a 
clipping  from  some  trade  magazine. 


all  about  how  John  Cole,  editor  of 
the  Maine  Times,  had  increased  its 
subscriptions  in  a refreshingly  direct 
way:  he  asked  readers  to  send  in  the 
names  of  friends  who  might  enjoy  the 
paper,  then  sent  those  friends  free 
copies.  "Our  circulation  started  to 
climb,"  Cole  modestly  reports,  "on  a 
gentle  inclined  plane." 

Inclined  plane?  That  was  all  we 
had  to  hear.  We  immediately  decided 
to  try  the  experiment  for  ourselves, 
and  Ray,  in  the  mailroom,  has 
already  begun  stockpiling  manila 
envelopes.  So  now,  filled  with 
enthusiasm,  postal  meters  at  the  ready, 
we're  making  the  following  offer: 

Introduce  a friend  to 
Twilight  Zone 

TZ  isn't  for  everyone.  It's  a 
magazine  for  lovers  of  supernatural 
fiction,  fantasy  films,  classic  horror, 
and  the  imaginative  genius  of  Rod 
Serling.  You  know  the  kind  of  person. 
Presumably  someone  like  you. 

Presumably,  too,  you  have 
friends  who  might  enjoy  TZ,  friends 
who  might  want  to  join— what's  that 
wonderful  cliche?  — Our  Growing 
Family  of  Readers. 

Here's  a chance  to  give  them  a 
free  look  at  the  magazine.  Just  print 
your  friend's  name  and  address  on 
the  coupon  below,  or  on  any  sheet  of 
paper  (a  postcard's  okay,  too),  and 
mail  it  to: 

Free  Sample 
Twilight  Zone 
800  Second  Avenue 
New  York,  NY  10017 

Because  of  our  limited  supply  of 
magazines,  we'll  only  be  able  to 
honor  the  first  1000  requests  — so  get 
yours  in  fast.  And  please  note  that 
we  can't  promise  to  send  the  very 
latest  issue  of  TZ.  Your  friend  will 
probably  receive  a back  issue;  it  may 
even  be  this  one. 

Thanks  for  helping  spread  the 
word.  — TK 


I SEND  A FRIEND  A FREE  TZ! 

I I’d  like  to  help  spread  the  word.  Send  a free  sample  issue  of  Twilight  Zone  to: 

[ NAME  (PLEASE  PRINT) 

I STREET 

I CITY  STATE  ZIP 


rW3ROpSERLING’S 


WGHT 

PNE 


MAGAZINE 


S.  Edward  Orenstein 
Chairman  and  Executive  Publisher 
Milton  J.  Cuevas 
President  and  Publisher 
Sidney  Z.  Gellman 
Treasurer 


Associate  Publisher  and 
Consulting  Editor:  Carol  Serling 
Executive  Editor:  John  R.  Bensink 


Editor  in  Chief:  T.E.D.  Klein 
Managing  Editor:  Robert  Sabat 
Assistant  Editor;  Alan  Rodgers 
Books  Editor:  Thomas  M.  Disch 
Contributing  Editors:  Gahan  Wilson, 

James  Vemiere,  Ron  Goulart 

Design  Director:  Michael  Monte 
Art  Director:  Pat  E.  McQueen 
Art  Production; 

Ljiljana  Randjic-Coleman 
Typography:  Irma  Landazuri 
Production  Director:  Stephen  J.  Fallon 
Vice  President-Finance, 

Controller:  Thomas  Schiff 
Assistant  Controller:  Chris  Grossman 
Accounting  Ass't:  Annmarie  Pistilli 
Assistant  to  the  President:  Jill  Obernier 
Assistant  to  the  Publisher:  Judy  Linden 
Public  Relations  Dir.:  Jeffrey  Nickora 
Special  Projects  Mgr. ; Brian  Orenstein  ' 
Office  Assistant:  Linda  Jarit 
Traffic:  Ray  Bermudez 
Circulation  Mgr.:  Carole  A.  Harley 
Circulation  Ass't.:  Stephen  Faulkner 
Southeast  Circ.  Mgr.:  Brenda  Smith 
Midwest  Circ.  Mgr.:  Richard  Tejan 
Western  Circ.  Mgr.;  Dominick  LaGatta 

National  Advertising  Director: 

Barbara  Lindsay 
Advertising  Coordinator: 

Marina  Despotakis 

Advertising  Ass't.:  Karen  Martorano 

Rod  Serliiig's  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine,  (Issn  § 
0279-6090)  May-June,  19M,  Volume  4,  Number  2,  is 
published  bimonthly  (6  times  per  year)  in  the  United  States 
and  simultaneously  in  Canada  by  TZ  Publications,  a 
division  of  Montcalm  Publishing  Corporation,  800  Second 
Avenue,  New  York,  N.Y.  10017.  Telephone  (212)  986-9600. 
Copyright  e 1984  by  TZ  Publications.  Rod  Serling’s  The 
Twilight  Zone  Magazine  is  published  pursuant  to  a license 
from  Carolyn  Serling  and  Viacom  Enterprises,  a division  of 
Viacom  International,  Inc.  All  rights  reserved.  Second<lass 
postage  paid  at  New  York,  NY,  and  at  additional  mailing 
offices.  Return  postage  must  accompany  all  unsolicited 
material.  The  publisher  assumes  no  responsibility  for  care 
and  return  of  unsolicited  materials.  All  rights  reserved  on 
material  accepted  for  publication  unless  otherwise  specified. 
All  letters  sent  to  Rod  Serling's  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine 
or  to  its  editors  are  assumed  intended  for  publication.  Noth- 
ing may  be  reproduced  in  whole  or  in  part  without  written 
permission  from  the  publishers.  Any  similarity  between 
persons  appearirtg  in  fiction  and  real  persons  living  or  dead 
is  coincidental.  Single  copies  $2.50  in  U.S..  $3  in  Canada. 
Subscriptions:  U.S.  and  U.S.  jwssessions  $16,  Canada 
and  foreign  $19.  Foreign  subscriptions  must  be  paid  in 
U.S.  currency,  except  Canada.  ABC  membership  applied  for 
and  pending.  Postmaster:  Send  address  changes  to  Rod 
Serling's  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine,  P.O.  Box  252,  Mt. 
Morris,  IL  61054-0252.  Printed  in  U.S.A. 


Twilight  Zone  9 


Illustration  © 1983  Thomas  M,  [>sch 


OTHER 


DIMENSIONS 


The  Spiritualists  by  Ruth 

Brandon  (Alfred  A.  Knopf, 
$16.95)  is  an  anecdotal  history 
• of  a nineteenth-century  craze  th^ 
mushroomed  into  a popular,  if  highly 
disorganized,  religion  — a religion 
which,  as  the  book  scrupulously  but 
often  hilariously  documents,  has  been 
a non-stop  con  game  from  its 
inception  in  1848  to  the  present  day. 
Connoisseurs  of  charlatanry  will  find 
much  to  enjoy  here,  but  the  dupes 
and  victims  are  quite  as  interesting  as 
the  perpetrators.  Indeed,  without  their 
active  credulity,  spiritualism  would 
never  have  been  more  than  a parlor 
game.  It  became  an  ism  only  through 
the  repeated  endorsements  of 
supposedly  respectable  journalists, 
scientists,  and  literary  celebrities  of 
the  stature  of  Elizabeth  Barrett 
(though  her  husband  Robert  Browning 
wrote  a scathing  satire  on  the  subject, 
"Mr.  Sludge,  The  Medium'");  Darwin's 
rival,  Alfred  Wallace;  the  psychologist 
William  James;  and  the  most  fanatical 
true  believer  of  the  lot,  Arthur 
Conan  Doyle,  the  creator  of  Sherlock 
Holmes. 

For  a subject  of  such  sensational 
interest,  it  may  seem  odd  that  there 
has  been  no  account  of  spiritualism 
before  Brandon's  that  lays  out  its 
entire  history  in  a non-partisan  spirit. 
But  those  who  would  like  to  think 
that  "there's  something  there"  would 
only  be  dismayed  by  the  facts  arrayed 
against  that  hope,  while  debunkers 
tend  to  grow  tired  of  their  sport  after 
one  or  two  examples.  Brandon  is  not 
a debunker,  however;  she  is  drawn  to 
her  subject  by  the  richness  of  its 


Books 

by  Thomas  M.  Disch 


psychological  interest.  This  is  history 
for  the  fun  of  it. 

The  fun  began  in  1848  in  upstate 
New  York,  when  two  sisters— Kate 
and  Maggie  Fox,  ages  eleven  and 
thirteen  — managed  to  convince  first 
their  parents,  then  the  township  of 
Arcadia,  and  soon  legions  of  the 
credulous  throughout  the  country, 
that  the  raps  they  made  by  the 
surreptitious  cracking  of  the  joints  of 
their  toes  were  communications  from 
spirits  departed  to  that  undiscovered 
country  from  whose  bourn,  in  the 
years  after  1848,  whole  trainloads  of 
travelers  began  to  return.  Upon 
arrival  in  the  material  plane,  these 
spirits  would  spell  out  slow  messages 
by  rapping  when  the  right  letter  was 
spoken  as  the  alphabet  was  recited 
over  and  over.  (The  Ouija  board  had 
riot  yet  been  invented.)  These 
alphabetic  longeurs  were  rendered 
obsolete  by  the  invention  of  trance- 
mediumship,  the  basic  imposture  still 
practiced  by  most  mediums.  Under 
hypnosis  (or  pretending  so),  the 
medium  delivers  messages  from 
various  departed  spirits,  either 
speaking  in  the  voice  of  an 
intermediary  spirit,  or  "contact,"  or 
passing  along  the  contact's  cheery 
banalities  by  report:  "White  Feather 
says  there  is  a little  girl  with  us,  and 
she  wants  her  mother  to  know  that 
she  is  very  happy  here  in  heaven."  In 
time  the  more  ambitious  mediums 
developed  a repertory  of  magician's 
tricks  to  secure  the  fuller  faith  of 
their  dupes,  but  as  soon  as  any 
medium  had  won  sufficient  fame  to 
be  investigated  by  skeptics  (stage 
magicians  were  most  successful  at- this 
task;  notably  Houdini),  he  would  be 
exposed  as  a fraud.  Or  say  rather 
"she,"  for  the  Other  Side  was  not  an 
equal  opportunity  employer,  and 
most  mediums  have  been  women. 

Some  of  these  tricks  were  so 
crude  that  it  is  hard  to  credit  how 
so  many  of  the  "investigators" 
themselves  could  be  taken  in.  One 
celebrated  medium,  Eva  C,  produced 
"face  manifestations"  that  were 
photographed  at  her  seances. 


(One  such  "spirit  photograph"  is 
reproduced  on  I he  cover  of  The 
Spiritualists.)  When  these  photographs 
proved  to  be  crudely  doctored 
newspaper  photographs  of  current 
celebrities  (including  President 
Wilson),  the  scientist  in  charge  of  the 
"investigation,"  Dr.  Schrenck-Notzing, 
was  not  shaken  in  his  conviction  that 
the  face  manifestations  were  of 
psychic  origin.  He  simply  furnished  a 
new  explanation  for  them:  instead  of 
representing  departed  spirits,  the 
manifestations  v/ere  a result  of  Eva 
Cs  "hypermnesia,"  a condition 
"common  among  hysterics,  which 
allowed  abnormal  sharpness  of  recall." 
Even  more  ingeniously,  Conan  Doyle 
explained  away  Houdini's  ability  to 
duplicate  the  feats  of  mediums  by 
insisting  that  Houdini  must  have  had 
psychic  powers  he  was  himself 
unaware  of. 

Brandon  has  compressed  and 
coordinated  at  least  a dozen  character 
studies,  each  of  which  has  the 
potential  for  full-scale  dramatic 
realization  in  the  Masterpiece  Theatre 
vein.  She  avoids  the  danger  of  having 
to  tell  the  same  story  over  and  over 
by  focusing  the  narrative  interest  on 
the  complex  mechanisms  of  self- 
deception  and  had  faith  rather  than 
on  the  crude  deceits  of  the  mediums. 
Such  an  approach  entails  a lot  of 
guessing  at  motives  that  her  subjects 
often  did  their  Ijest  to  obfuscate  or 
conceal,  but  Brimdon  is  a shrewd 
guesser.  Her  judgments  are  neither 
too  blameful  ncr  too  indulgent. 

This  is  the  perfect  book  to 
commend  to  those  who  are  gluttons 
for  the  miraculous  — to  readers  of 
Colin  Wilson,  Brian  Inglis,  and  the 
National  Enquirer- though,  as 
Brandon  shows  time  and  again,  faiths 
are  strong  in  proportion  to  their 
preposterousnesH.  Brandon  is  able  to 
avoid  a tone  of  outright  derision  (as  I 
cannot),  and  so  she  may  be  able  to 
penetrate  some  minds  that  true- 
believing  hasn't  turned  to  rock,  for 
the  indictment  she  piles  up  is  as 
formidable  as  the  story  she  tells  is 
fascinating. 


10  Twilight  Zone 


Spiritualism  flourished  in  the 
same  period  as  most  of  the  tales 
collected  in  Roald  Dahl's  Book  of 
Ghost  Stories  (Farrar,  Straus  & 

Giroux,  $12.95)  and  Lost  Souls:  A 
Collection  of  English  Ghost  Stories, 
edited  by  TZ's  frequent  contributor. 
Jack  Sullivan  (Ohio  University  Press, 
$25.95  in  cloth,  $12.95  in  paper). 

Since  it  Was  the  chief  tenet  of 
spiritualist  faith  that  there  are  ghosts, 
many  writers  of  ghost  stories 
expropriated  for  their  own  use  much 
of  the  spiritualists'  genteel  intellectual 
baggage.  This  new  breed  of  ghos(f 
was  not  specters  of  the  danrned,  like 
Hamlet's  father,  nor  bleedin'  'orrors, 
beloved  by  readers  of  the  penny 
dreadfuls.  They  were,  instead,  as 
Sullivan's  title  sums  them  up.  Lost 
Souls  — lost  in  transit  to  the  Other 
Side,  confused  about  but  not 
necessarily  ill-disposed  toward 
creatures  of  flesh. 

Under  this  new  dispensation, 
ghosts  were  domesticated  and  made 
to  conform  to  the  decorous  tastes  of 
a middle-class,  middlebrow  audience. 
In  the  American  pulps  there  was  still 
full-frontal  ghastliness,  but  British 
ghosts  were  expected  to  comport 
themselves  like  ordinary  people. 

When  an  ex-wife  wished  to  haunt 
her  faithless  husband  (as  in  Mary 
Treadgold's  'The  Telephone"  in  the 
Dahl  collection),  her  reproaches  were 
conveyed  over  the  phone,  in  what  we 
must  imagine  to  be  a subdued  tone. 
The  theory  is  that  ghosts  are  credible 
in  proportion  to  the  gentility  of  their 
manners.  The  brush  of  a sleeve,  a 
stifled  sigh  — these  are  to  be  the  stuff 
of  horror,  and  in  the  hands  of  a 
good  writer  they  serve  very  well.  The 
greatest  of  all  ghost  stories,  James's 
The  Turn  of  the  Screw,  doesn't 
bother  with  horrid  shrieks  and 
rattled  chains. 

Both  collections  have  a 
predilection  for  this  genteel  tradition, 
and  both  have  their  share  of  prime 
examples.  Sullivan  ranges  farther  in 
time,  and  he  is  more  willing  to 
tolerate  gallumphing  prose  for  the 


^sake  of  a good  shudder.  But  what 
makes  Sullivan's  incontestably  the 
more  valuable  book  is  the  critical 
apparatus  he  supplies,  with  a good 
general  introduction  and  separate 
notes  for  each  story  that  will  steer 
interested  readers  to  related  works. 

By  contrast,  the  Dahl  collection 
is  distinguished  by  an  introduction 
that  is  like  one  of  those  Ring  Lardner 
storie^  in  which  a pompous  narrator 
inadvertently  proves  himself  to  be  a 
dork.  Dahl  begins  by  telling  the  sad 
story  of  a project  he  once  undertook 
with  "Eddie"  Knopf  (who  had  been 
"Edwin"  only  the  paragraph  before). 
Dahl  was  to  scout  about  for  ghost 
stories  suitable  for  adaptation  to  a tv 
series  that  would  have  been  a rival  to 
The  Twilight  Zone.  The  series  fell 
through  when  higher  powers  didn't 
cotton  to  Dahl's  script,  based  on 
E.F.  Benson's  "The  Hanging  of  Alfred 
Wadham,"  ostensibly  because  of  its 
anti-Catholic  overtones  [for  more  on 
E.F.  Benson,  see  page  63  — Ed.].  His 
research  for  this  failed  project,  Dahl 
assures  us,  established  him  as  an 
authority  on  the  genre,  and  he 
assures  us  further  that  nothing  written 
since  1958  "can  come  anywhere  near 
the  standard  of  the  select  group  in 
this  book."  (Excluding,  presumably, 
the  Robert  Aickman  tale  from  1964, 
which  is  among  the  stories  selected.) 
We  are  also  told,  with  the  same 
confident  authority,  that  there  has 
never  been  a woman  composer, 
painter,  or  sculptor  of  the  first  rank, 
and  further,  that  women  can't  write 
plays  or  "great"  short  stories  — this  by 
way  of  allowing  that  they  can  write 
ghost  stories  and  books  for  children. 

If  this  is  the  man  she  was  married  to, 
no  wonder  Patricia  Neal  got  hooked 
on  Anacin. 

As  I write  this  review,  Stephen 
King's  Pet  Sematary  (Doubleday, 
$15.95)  has  already  been  on  the  New 
York  Times  bestseller  list  for  ten 
weeks,  and  it  will  surely  still  be  there 
eight  weeks  from  now,  when  this  - 
appears  in  print.  It  seems  a fair  bet, 
then,  that  many— perhaps  most  — of 
TZ's  readers  will  already  have  read 
King's  novel.  Therefore  I mean  to 
allow  myself  a liberty  that  the  rules 
of  reviewing  ordinarily  prohibit  and 
to  discuss  IGng's  book  with  no 
concern  for  spoiling  the  surprises  of 
the  plot.  Be  warned:  if  you  haven't 
yet  read  Pet  Sematary  but  think 
youll  probably  get  around  to  it,  skip 
ahead  to  the  next  pection. 


What  has  tempted  me  to  bend 
the  rules  in  this  case  is  that  the 
considerable  inteiest  (and  ultimate 
failure)  of  Pet  Sematary  is  directly 
related  to  the  themes  I've  been 
dealing  with  above.  The  story 
concerns  a doctor  disordered  by  his 
grief  for  a loved  child,  and  who 
succumbs  to  the  temptation  of 
"resurrecting"  the  child  by  interring  its 
corpse  in  an  Indian  burial  ground 
that  has  the  special  property  of 
reanimating  the  dead.  King  does  his 
usual  skillful  job  of  seducing  us  into 
accepting  his  unlikely  story,  and  at 
the  same  time  creates  an  atmosphere 
drenched  in  the  fear  of  death.  One 
would  have  to  be  a very  guileless 
reader  indeed  not  to  foresee  that  the 
author  has  doorred  his  hero's  child  to 
an  early  death.  The  real  element  of 
suspense  is  how  the  child  will  behave 
in  its  resurrected  state,  and  King's 
answer  is  to  have  the  little  zombie  go 
on  a rampage  of  homicide  and  dirty 
talk  that  was  like  watching  a cassette 
of  The  Exorcist  on  fast  forward.  My 
objection  to  this  denouement  is 
neither  to  its  strain  on  credibility  nor 
to  its  mayhem,  but  to  the  way  it  fails 
to  carry  forward,  still  less  to  resolve, 
the  novel's  so  pcwerfully  stated 
themes  — the  human  need  to  believe, 
at  any  cost,  in  an  afterlife,  a need 
that  can  drive  those  who  lack  the 
safety  valve  of  a religious  faith  to 
such  bizarre  excesses  as  spiritualism. 

King's  opting  for  a conventional 
spatter-movie  resolution  to  the 
question,  "What  if  the  dead  were  to 
live  again?",  is  a 1 the  more 
regrettable,  since  in  the  figure  of 
Church,  a zombified  cat,  he  has 
prefigured  a possibility  that  is  both 
more  harrowing  and  more  pertinent 
to  the  central  themes  of  loss  and 
grief,  though  in  Church's  case  it  is 
the  loss  of  those  vital  energies  that 
together  constitute  the  soul.  From 
having  been  the  beau  ideal  of 
cattiness,  Churcfi  degenerates  into  a 
sluggish,  surly  scavenger;  not  at  all  a 
demonic  cat,  just  spoiled  meat.  If  the 
dead  child  had  returned  from  the 
grave  similarly  disensouled,  the  horror 
would  have  been  infinitely  greater, 
because  that  loss  would  be  a vivid 
correlative  to  a parental  fear  of  a fate 
truly  worse  than  death,  the  fear  that 
one's  child  may  be  severely  mentally 
impaired. 

It's  doubtful,  of  course,  whether 
the  public  wants  to  be  harrowed.  The 
blustering  denouement  King  does 
provide  is  reassifring  to  readers 


12  Twilight  Zone 


precisely  to  the  degree  that  it's 
conventional;  it's  King's  way  of  telling 
us  not  to  be  upset:  it  was  only  a 
ghost  story,  after  all.  At  his  best. 

King  has  shown  hiniself  capable  of 
combining  the  frissons  of  the 
supernatural  thriller  with  the 
weightier  stuff  of  tragedy,  but  in  the 
present  instance  he  has  decided  to 
sidestep  that  harder  task  and  just  lay 
on  the  special  effects  till  he's  spent  his 
budget  of  potential  victims.  I hope  it 
doesn't  represent  a long-term  decision. 

Let  me  add  a final  brief  note  of 
recommendation  for  two  anthologies 
lately  published  by  ihe  Oxford 
University  Press  — The  Oxford  Book 
of  Dreams,  edited  by  Stephen  Brook 
($16.95),  and  The  Cbcford  Book  of 
Narrative  Verse,  edited  by  Iona  and 
Peter  Opie  ($19.95).  The  first  is  a 
fascinating  compendium  of  dreams 
dreamt  or  invented  by  an  all-star  cast 
of  celebrity  dreamers  and  dream 
interpreters,  including  (to  cite  only 
some  of  the  B's)  Baudelaire,  Beddoes, 
Berryman,  Bismarck,  Blake,  Borges, 
the  Brontes,  Bunyar,  and  Byron. 
Dreams  are  notoriously  more 
interesting  to  those  who  dream  them 


than  to  those  who  are  told  about 
them  the  next  morning,  but  Brook 
casts  his  net  widely  and  choses 
wisely,  and  the  result  makes  for  ideal 
bedtime  browsing.  In  a book  rich  in 
oddities,  among  the  oddest  are  the 
selections,  sprinkled  liberally 
throughout,  from  The  Oneirocticon,  a 
book  that  explained  to  readers  of 
A.D.  350  what  their  dreams  meant: 
'To  hold  eggs,  or  to  eat  eggs, 
symbolizes  vexation  ...  If  you  are 
governing  children  [in  a dream], 
expect  a coming  danger  . . . The 
amputation  of  the  feet  is  a bar  to  a 
contemplated  journey." 

The  Opies  are  renowned  for 
their  earlier  critical  anthology. 

The  Oxford  Dictionary  of  Nursery 
Rhymes,  which  has  a reputation 
among  both  scholars  and  ordinary 
readers  on  a par  with  that  of  the 
Grimm  brothers'  fairy  tales.  This  new 
collection  of  narrative  poetry  is  a 
lesser  achievement,  if  only  because  it 
cannot  possibly,  in  only  four  hundred 
pages,  do  justice  to  all  legitimate 
claimants  for  inclusion.  The  twentieth 
century  has  been  relegated  to  a bare 
fifty  pages,  mostly  by  poets  writing 
in  a determinedly  Victorianesque 


mode,  as  though  they  had  the  Opies 
in  mind.  However,  because  the  Opies 
have  been  so  timid  in  their  selection, 
the  book  has  the  merit  of  being 
chock-full  of  all  the  venerable 
chestnuts  older  readers  will  have 
read,  and  often  memorized,  at  school. 
Few  poems  can  reach  the  status  of 
chestnutdom  withoqt  real  merit,  and 
it  was  a pleasure  to  reread  such 
classroom  classics  as  Longfellow's 
'The  Wreck  of  the  Hesperus"  and 
Browning's  "Pied  Piper"  and  to  find 
that  they  still  do  the  trick.  For 
families  that  are  looking  for  a 
mentally  energizing  alternative  to 
televison,  there  could  be  no  finer 
single  source  of  read-aloud  goodies, 
and  for  fantasy  fans,  there  is  the 
additional  benefit  that  at  least  half 
the  contents  have  a supernatural  or 
fantastic  interest,  including  two  of 
Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales,  the  first 
of  the  Robin  Hood  ballads,  snippets 
from  Spenser  and  Milton,  Coleridge's 
"Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner,"  and 
at  least  a dozen  more,  all  approved 
classics  and  good  stories  to  boot.  iS 


MORE  BOOKS -PAGE  24 


". . .tight  plotting,  furious  aaion,  and  have-at-'em 


entertainment."  Klrkus  Reviews 


"I  give  it  the  wr.tten  equivalent  of  a standing  ovationi" 


"A  superlative  story  teller  with  total  mastery  of  plot 


and  pacing. . . If  you  like  Heinlein,  you'll  like  Hubbard." 


Publisher's  Weiskly 


Ray  Faraday  Nelson 


BUY  IT  AT  YOUR  LOCAL  BOOKSTORE 


ni 

©1984  Bridge  Publications,  inc.  an  rights  reserved. 


.1 

■f. 


Twilight  Zone  13 


Illustration  <£)  1983  Gahan  Wilson 


“A  prince  who  sees  glimmerings  of  kingship."  Arnie  (Keith  Gorcion),  still  in  the  nerd 
stage,  buys  his  wheeis  from  the  disreputabie  LeBay  (Roberts  B ossom)  despite  the 
warnings  of  his  buddy  (John  Stockwell)  in  Christine. 


There  have  certainly  been 
authors  with  more  works 
adapted  into  films 
(the  footage  devoted  to  Somerset 
Maugham  must  reach  from  this 
typewriter  to  the  moon  and  back) 
and  authors  whose  opinions  on  these 
films  have  been  sought  more  avidly 
(Ernest  Hemingway  must  hold  the 
record,  very  understandably,  for 
negative  reactions),  but  I don't  think 
any  author  has  had  to  put  up  with 
so  much  of  either  in  so  tiny  a space 
of  time  as  Stephen  King. 

Of  course.  King  can  certainly  be 
excused  if  he  has  become  a teeny  bit 
blase  about  setting  records.  I can 
remember  when  it  seemed  quite 
sensational  to  discover  that  he  had 
actually  grabbed  first  place  in  both 
the  New  York  Times  hardcover  and 
paperback  bestseller  lists,  but  now  it 
just  doesn't  seem  right  to  pick  up  the 
Sunday  book  section  and  find  that  he 
isn't  numero  uno  on  both  of  them. 
Let's  face  it:  the  fellow  is  a success. 

On  the  whole,  his  reactions  to 
the  films  made  from  his  work  — 
especially  considering  their  widely 
varying  quality  — have  been  very 


gentlemanly.  When  pressed  as  to  why 
this  or  that  cinematic  mastermind 
decided  to  do  something  unexpected 
and  perhaps  not  altogether  successful 
regarding  one  of  his  creations,  he  has 
slipped  into  a kind  of  tolerant 
fatalism.  All  things  considered,  it  is 
probably  the  wisest  approach  for  him 
to  take  — even  if,  now  and  then,  he 
would  probably  like  to  cart  someone 
out  and  shoot  them. 

I don't  think  any  such  thoughts 
crossed  his  mind  when  he  saw 
Christine,  which  seemed  to  me,  on 
the  whole,  a highly  acceptable 
rendition  of  his  book  and  one  of  the 
better  tries  at  getting  across  King's 
solid  grasp  of  day-to-day  Americana. 

Christine  charts  the  growth 
(if  not  necessarily  the  maturation) 
of  a young  mile  soul  in  our  not 
particularly  kindly  way  of  life,  just  as 
Carrie  did  for  a young  female  soul. 

In  both  cases  the  passage  through 
adolescence  proves  to  be  too  much; 
both  characters  are  given  power, 
warped  horribly,  and  then  destroyed. 

The  forces  that  destroy  them 
combine  primordial  magic  and  pop 
culture.  In  the  case  of  Christine's 


Amie  (played  by  Keith  Gordon),  we 
have  a prince  who  sees  glimmerings 
of  possible  kingship— via  an  extemely 
tricky  Excalibur  in  the  form  of  a 1958 
Plymouth  Fury.  In  the  book,  the 
Fury  (was  there  ever  a more 
American  name  for  a family  car?) 
seemed  to  have  acquired  its  malefic 
talents  and  predilections  from  an  evil 
former  owner  with  the  sorcerish  name 
of  Roland  Le  Bay.  In  the  movie  she 
is  bom  bad  and  commits  her  first 
depredations  even  before  she  quits  her 
Detroit  construction  line.  Christine  is, 
in  both  versions,  very  much  the  sort 
of  car  you  hope  your  boy  doesn't  run 
away  with.  An  instmctive  example  of 
consumer  goods  i:umed  consumer,  she 
devours  everything  she  comes  across. 
It  really  doesn't  matter  if  she  takes  to 
you  and  takes  you  as  her  lover;  in 
the  end  she  will  destroy  you,  along 
with  your  enemieis  and  those  you 
might  have  loved  had  it  not  been  for 
her.  Being  merely  flesh  and  blood, 
you  can  only  be  a passing  event  for 
such  as  she,  a temporary  diversion  at 
best. 

This  plays  vi;ry  nicely  into  what 
has  been  a persistent  weakness  in  the 


14  Twilight  Zone 


talents  of  director  John  Carpenter. 

His  movies  have  varied  enormously. 
Some  have  been  good,  some  have 
been  awful.  All  of  tliem  have  suffered 
from  an  odd  sort  of  emptiness  in  his 
handling  of  characters  and  the  actors 
who  play  them.  If  you  think  back 
over  a Carpenter  movie,  you  can 
remember  how  the  plot  worked,  how 
it  twisted  and  surprised,  or  at  least 
barreled  right  along;  you  can 
remember  scenes  and,  even  more 
easily,  single  shocking  images.  But 
with  the  possible  exception  of  Escape 
from  New  York,  it  is  very  hard  to 
conjure  up  a character.  In  some  films, 
such  as  Halloween,  it  couldn't  matter 
less  whether  there  are  any  characters. 
Better,  actually,  if  there  aren't,  since 
the  film  is  only  a shooting  gallery 
with  moving  ducks  at  one  end  and 
someone  pegging  away  at  them  from 
the  other.  In  a movie  like  The  Fog, 
on  the  other  hand,  you  keep  hoping 
for  something  or  other  to  catch  your 
interest,  and  a living  human  being 
or  two  would  have  been  a help.  In  a 
show  like  The  Thing,  characters  were 
badly  missed,  especi.ally  since,  in  the 
original  version.  We  Were  There,  so 
to  speak.  It  would  fiave  been  nice  to 
have  a believable  ore-of-us  out  there 
once  again  to  combat  the  alien 
whatsis. 

In  Christine,  however,  the 
casualness  with  which  Carpenter 
throws  his  actors  around  seems 
almost  a virtue,  since  the  film  is, 
after  all,  an  allegory  about  how 
people  are  dehumanized  by  their 
voluntary  slavery  to  possessions  and 
how  they  prove,  in  the  end,  to  be 
more  disposable  than  their 
disposables.  There  were  paper  towels 
before  you  were  bom,  and  there'll  be 
paper  towels  after  you're  gone, 
buddy,  no  matter  how  many  plastic 
trash  bags  of  'em  you  tote  amoy  — this 
might  be  the  epitaph  of  our  odd 
brand  of  civilization. 

Christine  herself  is  satisfactory  in 
every  respect;  now  and  then  she 
reaches  heights  of  impact  truly 
astounding  for  a mechanical  actress.  I 
think  her  best  moments  are  when 
she's  on  fire;  the  footage  of  her 
blazing  is  truly  mytliic,  and  stirred 
something  atavistic  in  my  Midwestern 
soul.  Apparently  the;  sight  of  a 
flaming  car  roaring  confidently  along 
a highway  touches  some  deep,  dark 
•part  of  my  psyche,  causing  a 
mysterious  resonance  which  I cannot 
explain  but  can  onlj'  testify  to. 


Roy  Arbogast's  special  effects 
enable  the  devilish  car  to  do  just 
about  anything  she  damn  well  wants, 
including  pulling  off  what  every  other 
woman  in  the  world— not  to  mention 
every  other  man  — would  give  a pretty 
penny  for:  instant  and  easy  repair  of 
the-  old  bod  whenever  it  gets  less  than 
juicy-fresh  from  the  rigors  of  age  or 
any  other  damage.  Ah,  what  one 
wouldn't  give  to  be  able  to  straighten 
out  one's  fender  whenever  one 
wished,  and  to  reassume  the  polish  of 
yesteryear!  Nineteen  fifty-eight 
forever,  by  God! 

The  sociological  background,  so 
vital  to  any  King  story,  is  treated 
conscientiously  by  Carpenter.  There  is 
a feeling  of  the  surrounding  world, 
an  attention  to  detail  about  the  looks 
of  the  school  locker  or  how  a 
battered  garage  door  hauls  itself 
open,  and  there's  a high  school 
football  game  which  is,  for  once,  in 
scale  and  not  on  a collegiate  level. 

Producer  Richard  Kobritz  and 
executive  producer  Kirby  McCauley 
are  both  familiar  with  King's  work; 


Kobritz  produced  his  'Salem's  Lot  for 
television  and  McCauley's  been  his 
trustworthy  literary  agent  for  years. 
This  probably  goes  a long  way 
toward  explaining  the  film's  fidelity  to 
that  author's  very  special  world. 

Less  fortunate  by  far,  very  far, 
as  a movie  and  as  an  adaptation  of  a 
novel,  is  The  Keep.  The  direction  and 
the  script  are  both  by  Michael  Mann, 
and  it  appears  that  he  simply  got  the 
wrong  kind  of  material  for  the  sort 
of  movie  he  wanted  to  do.  I 
understand  that  Jean  Cocteau's  Beauty 
and  the  Beast  was  his  inspiration  for 
this  film.  It  does  indeed  seem  to  be 
trying  to  do  the  kind  of  thing 
Cocteau  succeeded  in  doing  with  that 
movie,  but  the  approach  simply  does 
not  work  for  a concept  like  The 
Keep. 

Perhaps  the  most  conclusive 
evidence  that  Mann  ought  to  have 
gone  elsewhere  for  his  story  is  that, 
so  far  as  I can  see,  he  threw  out 
the  best  and  most  original  aspect  of 
F.  Paul  Wilson's  novel.  In  The  Keep 


THE 


"Deserves  a place  alongside  Carlos 
Castaneda,  Joan  Halifax,  Claudio 
Natanjo,  and  John  Lilly!"t 


WYRD 

The  Book  of  a Sorcerer’s 
Apprentice 

BRIAN  BATES 


ased  on  little-known  medieval  manuscripts,  Bates's  book 
imaginatively  recreates  a young  man's  initiation,  a thousand  years 
ago,  into  Anglo-Saxon  shamanistic  healing  methods,  the  spirit 
world,  and  the  secrets  of  "wyrd,"  the  source  of  all  earthly  — and  unearthly  — 
powers.  "A  brilliant,  vivid,  entertaining,  and  precise  distillation  of  scholarship 
on  Anglo-Saxon  sorcery,  magic,  and  shamanism."  — R.  D.  Laingt 


At  bookstores  now 


HRRPCR  ROOJ 

□□ 

SflN  FRANCISCO 

- -4 


Twilight  Zone  15 


as  originally  written,  the  menace,  an 
awful  something  which  haunts  a 
strange  Romanian  fort  or  "keep" 
dating  from  the  dark  ages,  is  brought 
on  as  a vampire,  probably  the  one 
on  whose  legends  Stoker  based  his 
Dracula.  The  real  core  of  the  book  is 
how  this  ancient  fiend  pulls  off  the 
seduction  of  a certain  Dr.  Cuza. 

In  the  film,  the  keep  has  been 
occupied  by  the  German  military, 
who  are  helping  to  safeguard  an 
approach  to  strategic  oil  fields.  A 
couple  of  naughty  enlisted  men,  in  a 
misguided  effort  to  get  at  buried 
treasure,  let  loose  the  monster,  who 
at  once  begins  killing  and  digesting 
parts  of  the  soldiers  assigned  to 
watch  his  lair.  The  officer  in  charge, 
a Wermacht  captain,  is  played 
gloomily  by  Jurgen  Prochnow,  fresh 
from  his  assignment  as  the  gloomy 
captain  of  the  submarine  in  Das 
Boot,  where  he  fared  much  better. 
Prochnow  philosophizes  endlessly  but 
gets  nowhere  with  the  monster,  ^ven 
when  Dr.  Cuza,  a Jewish  historian 


. and  all-around  scholar,  is  carted  to 
the  keep  along  with  his  cranky 
daughter  in  order  to  help  out.  Cuza 
is  played  by  Ian  McKellen,  and  one 
of  the  spookiest  parts  about  the 
movie  is  wondering  where  this 
ordinarily  excellent  actor's  talent  went 
for  the  duration  of  the  film.  His 
work  in  The  Keep  is  on  the  level  of 
someone  in  a high  school  play  who, 
in  comparision  with  the  rest  of  the 
cast  — the  high  school  cast,  mind,  and 
let's  make  this  a very  so-so  high 
school  — is  not  good.  I think  it's  very 
likely  the  school  board  canned  the 
drama  teacher  on  account  of  it.  Very 
likely. 

Anyhow,  in  the  origineJ  book 
Cuza's  Jewishness  is  extremely 
important,  because  when  he  flashes  a 
priest's  crucifix  in  front  of  the 
supposed  vampire,  the  vampire  tries 
to  cover  up  and  pretend  it  never 
happened  but  it  scares  the  hell  out  of 
him,  just  as  it  does  with  Bela  Lugosi 
in  the  movies.  The  same  with  Jesus 
Christ's  name:  all  you  have  to  do  is 


mention  it  in  the  presence  of  the 
vampire  and  he  goes  all  to  pieces. 

Well,  you  can  imagine  what  this 
does  to  poor  Jewish  Dr.  Cuza,  who 
up  to  now  was  pretty  much  a know- 
it-all.  If  a crucifix  and  Jesus  Christ's 
name  have  that  much  of  an  effect  on 
a big,  tough  vampire  who  can  eat 
German  soldiers  for  breakfast,  it  can 
mean  only  one  thing:  the  divinity  of 
Christ.  Yet  later  on,  when  Cuza's  not 
looking,  a German  soldier  flashes  a 
crucifix  at  the  vampire  and  the 
vampire  snickers  and  gulps  it  down 
along  with  the  soldier.  He's  been 
fooling  Cuza  wi:h  nasty  tricks, 
destroying  his  beliefs  so  that  he  may 
turn  the  poor,  confused  soul  into  his 
slave! 

But  for  some  reason  unknown  to 
me,  this  whole  gimmick,  by  far  the 
cleverest  and  nastiest  thing  in  the 
book,  is  left  out  of  the  movie,  while 
all  its  surrounding  props  are 
inexplicably  retained.  The  kindly 
priest  does  give  Cuza  the  crucifix, 
Cuza  is  Jewish,  a German  soldier  is 
eaten  in  spite  of  having  a handy 
cross,  and  so  o:  . Strange. 

Another  thing  that's  strange  is 
that  the  monster  — created  by  Nick 
Alder  of  Alien  c.nd  played  by  Mike 
Carter,  who  was  picked,  I guess,  for 
his  size  — is  about  as  unconvincing  a 
rubber-suit  job  cis  I have  ever  seen. 
The  extreme  artificiality  of  the 
monster's  various  guises,  plus  the 
extremely  heavy  and  pretentious  way 
he's  directed,  add  up  to  just  too 
damned  much  unreality.  Beauty  and 
the  Beast  took  pJace  in  fairyland,  all 
of  it  over  the  rainbow,  so  one 
expected  an  immersion  in  total, 
unmitigated  fantasy.  But  The  Keep  is 
supposed  to  be  taking  place  in  the 
real  world  (if  a very  odd  comer  of 
it),  and  because  it  jerks  the  audience 
back  and  forth  I’rom  German 
uniforms,  electric  lamps,  and  rifles  to 
absolute  Ozian  impossibilities,  from 
discussions  of  genocide  to  an 
extremely  vague  and  dreamy  notion 
that  the  last  suri^ivors  of  two  battling 
prehuman  cultures  are  about  to  have 
another  go  at  their  immemorial  tussle, 
the  suspension  cf  disbelief,  always  the 
rock-bottom  basis  for  any  spooky 
fantasy,  is  tom  and  destroyed. 

All  of  which  goes  to  show  that  if 
you  don't  know  what  you're  doing, 
you  just  can't  scare  anybody,  even 
with  something  nastier  than  Count 
Dracula,  and  that  if  you  do  know 
what  you're  doing,  all  you  need  is  an 
old  car.  (0 


16  Twilight  Zone 


OTHER 


D 


M E N S 1 O N S 


Nostalgia 

by  Ron  Goulart 


Decade  of 
the  Big  Bugs 


“An  enduring  symbol  of  the  gap  between  man’s  aspirations  and  his 
actual  achievements."  It’s  Claudia  Barrett  versus  a “Ro-Man”  in  the 
celebrated  Robot  Monster  (1953). 


Mixed  feelings  are  what  I 

have  about  the  1950s.  And 
so  when  the  editorial  powers 
suggested  a piece  on  the  horrors  and 
fantasies  of  the  decade,  I thought  first 
not  of  movies  but  of  Eisenhower, 
Nixon,  Joe  McCarthy,  and  a dozen  or 
so  young  ladies  who  refused  to  be  led 
astray.  Since,  however.  I've  already 
devoted  a column  to  the  fantastic  and 
spooky  films  of  the  1940s,  it  seems 
only  fair  to  give  the  next  ten-year 
span  equal  time. 

At  the  start  of  the  fifties  I was 
an  undersized  acned  high  school  boy 
and  at  the  end  I was  an  undersized 
jaded  advertising  copywriter.  In 
between  I served  four  years  at  a large 
West  Coast  university,  put  in  a 
couple  hitches  in  ad  agencies,  and 
tried  my  hand,  not  too  successfully, 
at  freelancing.  What  with  struggling 
to  stay  in  college  so  I wouldn't  get 
drafted  and  sent  to  Korea  and  then 
struggling  to  write  clever  copy  about 
peanut  butter,  beer,  and  cottage 
cheese  so  that  I could  justify  my 
reputation  as  the  boy  wonder  of  the 
ad  game,  I really  didn't  have  much 
time  for  Happy  Days-type  adventures. 
But  at  least  my  acne  cleared  up. 

The  fifties  were  a relatively 
innocent  era  as  far  as  the  explicit 
depiction  of  grue  and  gore  on  the 
screen  goes.  Although  the  movies 
grew  less  guarded  than  those  of 
earlier  decades,  we  still  hadn't 
reached  the  butcher-shop  realism  and 


innards-in-your-lap  approach  that's 
the  hallmark  of  today's  shockers.  It 
was  a tame,  pre-splatter  time.  A great 
many  people  suffered  from  political 
jitters  and  almost  as  many  from 
atomic  jitters  (an  earlier  form  of 
today's  nuclear  heebie-jeebies),  and 
this  was  reflected  in  the  popular  arts. 
Science  fiction  and  horror  films  were 
preoccupied,  as  were  much  of  the 
public  and  a goodly  number  of 
elected  officials,  with  the  notion  of 
invasion.  And  despite  the  overt 
optimism  about  the  wonders  of  the 
atomic  age,  there  was  a great  deal  of 
ill-concealed  concern.  The  notion  that 
radiation  could  cause  wild  changes  in 
size  was  one  of  the  most  popular 
ones  in  the  cinema  of  the  day,  and 
we  were  infested  with  giant  bugs, 
beasts,  and  seafood.  Human  beings 
suffered  fluctuations,  too,  causing 
both  colossal  women  and  teeny- 
weeny  men.  And  what  a poignant 
star-crossed  love  story  could've  been 
made  if  only  somebody 'd  thought  to 
team  the  Fifty  Foot  Woman  with  the 
Shrinking  Man. 

Despite  the  lukewarm  tone  of  the 
opening  paragraph,  some  of  my  all- 
time  favorite  horror  and  sci-fi  movies 
came  along  in  this  decade.  High  on 
my  list  is  Robot  Monster,  a 1953 
opus  I rank  as  the  most  endearingly 
awful  sf  film  ever  made.  Supposedly 
dealing  with  the  invasion  of  moon 
monsters  from  Mars  and  starring  the 
dependably  second-rate  George  Nader, 


it  is  stolen  (I  know,  I know  — petty 
larceny)  by  the  invader  himself.  For 
there's  only  one  hvader  to  be  seen,  a 
shaggy,  overweight  gorilla  in  a space 
helmet.  It's  been  at  least  thirty  long 
years  since  I've  sjen  the  movie,  but 
the  image  of  that  helmeted  gorilla 
trotting  down  a nillside  will  stay  with 
me  always.  He  is;  trying  so  hard  to 
bring  it  off,  knowing  full  well  he 
won't  be  able  to  convince  even  the 
least  demanding  movie  fan  that  he's 
anything  but  an  actor  in  a cut-rate 
animal  suit  — an  enduring  symbol  of 
the  gap  between  man's  aspirations 
and  his  actual  achievements. 

According  to  on*!  of  the  reference 
books  I consulted,  this  appealing 
creature  was  played  by  one  George 
Barrows,  "a  bit-part  actor  who 
specialized  in  ap*:  roles."  If  anybody 
has  a petition  to  get  Barrows  his  own 
star  in  the  Hollywood  pavement.  I'll 
be  happy  to  sign. 

Another  of  my  favorites  from  the 
fifties,  a good  movie  this  time,  was 
one  I missed  seeing  when  it  was  first 
released.  It  was  years  later,  by  way 
of  some  late-show  creature  feature, 
that  I caught  up  with  the  1958  Curse 
of  the  Demon.  Directed  by  Jacques 
Tourneur  and  based  loosely  on  M.R. 
James's  short  stoiy  "Casting  the 
Runes,"  the  film  stars  Dana  Andrews, 
Peggy  Cummins,  and  Niall 
MacGinnis.  Actually  the  real  star  is 
Tourneur,  who'd  directed  such 
effective  albeit  lew-budget  chillers  of 


18  Twilight  Zone 


the  forties  as  Cat  People  and  I 
Walked  with  a Zombie.  In  this 
British-made  movie  lie  again  makes 
use  of  the  tricks  and  techniques  he'd 
developed  while  working  for  producer 
Val  Lewton  at  RKO  Nobody  was 
better  than  Tourneui'  at  hinting  at 
horror,  at  making  you  feel  uneasy 
about  what  might  be  lurking  just 
around  the  comer  of  everyday  life.  In 
Demon  he  even  mar  ages  to  make  an 
outdoor  children’s  party  seem  sinister. 
The  story  has  the  initially  skeptical 
visiting  professor  Andrews  gradually 
becoming  convinced  that  MacGinnis 
is  a warlock,  one  able  to  summon  up 
a demon  whose  specialty  is  killing 
anyone  unlucky  enough  to  be  holding 
a certain  slip  of  paper  with  an 
ancient  mystic  phrase  scrawled  on  it. 
Supposedly,  as  had  happened  with 
Cat  People,  Tourneur  was  forced  by 
his  producer  to  show  his  monster. 
This  obviously  detracts  from,  but 
doesn't  at  all  spoil,  ’<vhat  is  otherwise 
an  excellent  and  subtle  horror  film. 
When  I say  horror  here.  I'm  talking 
about  the  sort  of  hcrror  that's 
experienced  in  the  mind  and  not  the 
guts. 

The  fifties,  as  mentioned  above, 
were  a time  when  all  sorts  of  things 
just  grew.  The  best  of  the  big-is- 
better  insect  and  bug  cycle  came 
along  in  1954.  Them  is  an  effective, 
downplayed  film,  and  the  suspense 
keeps  building.  Building,  that  is,  until 
we  find  out  that  the  cause  of  all  the 
strange  happenings  in  the  bleak, 
windswept  Southwest  is  giant  ants 
— and  actually  see  tlie  dam  things. 
Gordon  Douglas,  the  man  who  gave 
us  Zombies  on  Broadway  in  the 
forties,  directed. 

Various  other  unlikely  critters 
waxed  gigantic  during  these  years.  A 
wasp  did  it  in  Monster  from  Green 
Hell,  an  octopus  in  It  Came  from 
Beneath  the  Sea,  and  a caterpillar  in 
Monster  That  Challenged  the  World. 
In  The  Killer  Shrews,  shrews  did  it,  a 
spider  did  it  in  Tarantula,  crabs  in 
Attack  of  the  Crab  Monsters,  and 
even  leeches  did  it  in  Attack  of  the 
Giant  Leeches.  A scorpion  ballooned 
up  to  chase  Richard  Denning  and 
Mara  Corday  in  Black  Scorpion,  and 
a praying  mantis  tried  a similar 
schtick  with  Craig  Stevens  and  Alix 
Talton  in  The  Deadly  Mantis.  With 
all  this  propaganda  about  the 
horrendous  side  effects  of  atomic 
bomb  tests  and  radiation,  it's  a 
wonder  we  didn't  get  a nuclear  freeze 
way  back  then.  Ma}/be  it's  because 


“Terminal  teeny-weenyism."  Grant 
Williams  prepares  to  pin  his  opponent  in 
The  Incredible  Shrinking  Man  (1957), 
which  Richard  Malheson  adapted  from 
his  novel. 

when  you  enlarge  an  insect,  it  tends 
to  look  more  silly  than  sinister. 

Humans  had  their  size  problems, 
too.  Take  Allison  Hayes,  who  has  an 
encounter  with  an  alien  and  then 
shoots  right  up  until  she's  big  enough 
to  play  the  title  role  in  Attack  of  the 
Fifty  Foot  Woman.  I'm  not  certain  I 


ever  saw  this  one,  since  I tended  in 
those  days  to  avoid  women  who 
were  noticeably  taller  than  I was.  I 
know  1 viewed  The  Amazing  Colossal 
Man,  about  an  army  colonel  who 
gets  too  close  to  an  atomic  test  blast 
and  suffers  the  usual  bout  of 
accelerated  growth.  My  reaction  to 
this  particular  film  was  sadness  rather 
than  fright,  because  Glenn  Langan 
was  cast  as  the  Colossal  Man.  Seeing 
a paunchy,  hairless  Langan  stomping 
around  with  a towel  as  his  only 
costume  made  me  aware  of  the 
transitory  nature  of  Hollywood  fame. 
In  the  forties,  when  I was 
entertaining  notions  of  growing  up  to 
be  a handsome,  deep-voiced  movie 
star  myself,  Langan  had  been  a 
handsome,  deep-voiced  movie  star  in 
such  20th  Century-Fox  hits  as  Margie, 
The  Snake  Pit,  and  Forever  Amber. 
Things  were  apparently  so  bad  for 
him  in  the  fifties  that  he  didn't  even 
get  to  play  in  the  sequel.  War  of  the 
Colossal  Beast. 

Back  then  exposure  to  radiation 
was  unpredictable.  It  caused  Langan 
to  become  exceedingly  tall,  but  had 


The  Great  American  Tradition 


GIANT  COLOR 
CATALOG  KIT 


$200 


in 

pno"* 


mim 

^ FIREWORKS  <1 


Offer  Void 
Where  Prohibited 


catalog  kits  at  $2.00  each. 


(Refundable  on  first  order) 

Name 


Aflflress 

City 

Blue  Angel  Fireworks 

p.o.  BOX  26-TZ  Columbiana,  oh  aaaoB 

Twilight  Zone  19 


Blbstal^a 


the  opposite  effect  on  poor  Grant 
Williams.  His  battle  against  terminal 
teeny-weenyism  is  chronicled  in  The 
Incredible  Shrinking  Man.  Released  in 
1957,  the  film  had  a screenplay  by 
Richard  Matheson  and  was  directed 
by  Jack  Arnold.  It's  not  a bad 
picture,  and  the  special  effects,  as 
Williams  gradually  shrinks,  are 
impressive.  The  mystical  ending, 
though,  when  Williams  pops  away  to 
nothing,  isn't  satisfying.  Imagine  what 
a nifty  garage  sale  they  could've  had 
with  all  the  gigantic  furniture  left 
over  from  this  one. 

Director  Arnold  had  a hand  in 
quite  a few  other  science  fiction 
movies  of  the  decade,  one  of  his 
specialties  being  the  misunderstood 
monster.  In  1953  his  It  Came  from 
Outer  Space,  based  on  a notion  of 
Ray  Bradbury's,  gave  us  visitors  from 
another  planet  plus  a snappy  plea  for 


“All  sorts  of  things  Just  grew.  ” Giant  ants 
were  a picnicker’s  nightmare  in  Them  (1954). 


tolerating  those  who  are  uglier  than 
we  are  but  may  otherwise  be  nice 
guys.  Richard  Carlson,  who  became 
one  of  the  standard  props  of  many  of 
the  better  sf  films  of  the  fifties,  was 
the  star  of  this  one  and  the 
spokesman  for  the  liberal  view  of  off- 
planet  immigration.  The  movie  was 
filmed  in  3-D,  as  was  Jack  Arnold's 
1954  Creature  from  the  Black  Lagoon. 
The  Gill-Man,  who  looked  like  a six- 
foot-tall  fish  with  arms  and  legs, 
made  his  debut  here.  Carlson  was 
again  cast  as  the  voice  of  reason, 
opposing  Richard  Denning,  who 
wanted  to  spear  the  misunderstood 
monster  and  not  let  him  continue  his 
peaceable  life  in  the  waters  of  the 
Amazon.  As  I recall,  what  I liked 
best  about  this  was  not  the  3-D 
effects  or  the  underwater  battles  but 
Julie  Adams  as  the  object  of  the 
monster's  affections.  You  can't  dislike 
a creature  who  shows  this  sort  of 
taste. 

The  Gill-Man  proved  a hit  and 
came  back  again  in  1955's  Revenge  of 


“What  might  be  lurking  just  around  the 
corner.  ” Title  character  from  Curse  of  the 
Demon  (1958). 


the  Creature.  John  Agar,  the  poor 
man's  Richard  Carlson,  was  the 
concerned  scientist  for  this  go-round. 
The  fish-man  made  his  final  splash  in 
The  Creature  Walks  Among  Us.  The 
leading  man  was  a fellow  with  one  of 
the  snappiest  names  of  the  period, 

Rex  Reason.  Besides  making  the  point 
that  we  should  strive  to  understand 
what  is  alien  and  different,  all  three 
of  these  films  stressed  the  message 
that  tampering  with  nature  was  only 
going  to  get  you  in  big  trouble  — a 
moral  from  earlier  horror  flicks  that 
took  on  a somewhat  different 
meaning  in  the  post-Bomb  years. 

One  of  the  better  alien-visitor 
movies  arrived  early  in  the  decade. 
The  Thing  was  released  in  1951, 
produced  by  Howard  Hawks  and 
directed  by  Christian  Nyby.  The 
script,  based  on  John  W.  Campbell's 
classic  but  clunky  pulp  yam  "Who 
Goes  There?",  was  by  Charles 
Lederer.  This  is  the  only  sf  script  he 
ever  did;  the  two  times  he'd  worked 
with  Hawks  earlier  had  been  on  the 
comedies  His  Girl  Friday  and  I Was  a 
Male  War  Bride.  Nevertheless  Hawks, 
who  supposedly  had  a hand  in  the 
directing,  played  The  Thing  fairly 
straight.  This  bunch-of-people- 
isolated-with-a-monster  movie  is 
basically  your  Old  Dark  House 
melodrama  dressed  up  with  science 
fictional  trappings,  and  once  again 
the  question  that  causes  all  the 
anxiety  is,  'Who'll  be  next?"  It  all 
works,  though,  and  I can  remember 
the  shared  gasp  that  went  through  the 
audience  when  the  creature  first 
lurched  into  view.  Kenneth  Tobey 
was  the  star,  turning  in  a strong- 
jawed,  no-nonsense  performance  he 


was  to  repeat  in  lesser  epics  for  years 
to  come. 

In  1956  came  Invasion  of  the 
Body  Snatchers.  Based  on  a Jack 
Finney  novel,  this  was  more  than  just 
another  why-wo  n't-they-believe-me? 
alien  invasion  thriller.  Working  with 
a strong  cast  of  actors  as  opposed  to 
stars,  director  Don  Siegel  and 
scriptwriter  Daniel  Mainwaring  (who 
wrote  mystery  novels  as  Geoffrey 
Homes)  also  managed  to  get  in  some 
nice  digs  at  the  political  conformity 
that  was  one  of  the  major  blights  of 
the  decade.  They  also  generated 
considerable  susjjense  with  the  story 
of  the  citizens  o::  a pleasant  Southern 
California  town  who  are  gradually 
replaced  by  alien  duplicates  of 
themselves.  Kevin  McCarthy,  Dana 
Wynter,  Carolyn  Jones,  Larry  Gates, 
and  King  Dono\  an  all  did  some  of 


"Those  who  are  uglier  than  we  are.  ” The 
Gill-Man  leaves  his  lagoon  for  a Florida 
aquarium  in  Revenge  of  the  Creature 
(1955),  with  John  Bromfield. 

their  best  work  Inere.  Both  this  story 
and  The  Thing  were  remade  in  recent 
times.  The  new  versions  were  longer, 
more  explicitly  gmesome,  and  in 
color.  Neither  was  as  good. 

Once  again  we've  come  to  the 
tag  end  of  the  column.  Regrettably, 
we'll  have  to  leave  the  rest  of  the 
cinema  treasures  of  our  featured 
decade  unsung  and  uncelebrated. 
There's  no  room  to  cover  the  movies 
that  dealt  with  such  vexing  adolescent 
problems  as  lycanthropy  and 
resurrection,  probed  in  such  screen 
gems  as  I Was  a Teenage  Werewolf,  I 
Was  a Teenage  Frankenstein,  and 
Teenage  Zombies.  No  space  either  for 
reptilian  favorites  like  Godzilla,  King 
of  the  Monsters  and  such  high-class 
stuff  as  The  Day  the  Earth  Stood  Still 
and  Forbidden  Planet. 

Some  later  column  maybe.  Right 
now  I want  to  make  sure  I get  this 
to  the  mailbox  f'efore  night  falls.  13 


20  Twilight  Zone 


Photo  courtesy  Rick  Baker;  special  thanks  to  Bob  Martin, 


OTHER 


D I M E N S 1 QMS 


REQUIEM  REVISITED 

More  than  a quarter  of  a century 
after  Rod  Serling's  Requ/em  for  a 
Heavyweight  inaugurated  the  Playhouse 
90  tv  series  on  October  11,  1956,  it  had 
its  official  stage  debut  this  January  at 
New  Haven’s  Long  Wharf  Theatre. 
Reviewer  Robert  Viagas  attended  the 
opening  night  and  filed  this  report: 

"There  is  a hard-core  coterie  of 
prize  fight  aficionados,"  wrote  Rod 
Serling,  "who  still  view  boxing  with 
the  artistic  attachment  of  the  art-lover 
at  a Picasso  exhibit." 

Rod's  1956  television  drama. 
Requiem  for  a Heavyweight,  is 
^ , convincing  evidence  that  he  counfed 
himself  a part  of  that  coterie.  It  won 
a mantelpiece  full  of  awards,  including 
five  Emmys  and  a Peabody.  It  also 
helped  establish  his  reputation  — so 
that  eventually  he  was  trusted  with 
his  own  tv  show.  The  Twilight  Zone. 

Though  Rod  did  not  see  his  own 
work  on  the  legitimate  stage  until 
1972's  Storm  in  Summer,  he  had  the 
theater  in  mind  when  he  wrote 
Requiem,  the  story  of  a broken-down 
boxer  ruthlessly  sold  out  by  his 
manager,  who  also  happens  to  be  his 
god. 


Arvin  Brown,  artistic  director  of 
Long  Wharf  Theatre,  has  brought 
Requiem  to  what  he  feels  is  its  natural 
medium  with  a production  that  almost 
takes  a beating  from  its  miscast  star, 
Richard  Dreyfuss,  but  which  ends  in  a 
draw  thanks  to  the  skill  of  John 
Lithgow  in  the  title  role. 

Though  no  actual  fights  take 
place  onstage.  Brown  has  staged  the 
drama  as  a progressiaft- of  emotional 
"bouts."^’Within.  lyl^prife  Bradley 
Kellogg's  circular  set,  "characters 
contend  for  money,  for  power,  for 
love,  and  for  time. 

Long  Wharf,  one  of  the  nation's 
most  prestigious  regional  theaters, 
moves  many  of  its  successful 
productions  directly  to  Broadway.  For 
that  reason  it  is  able  to  attract  top- 
drawer  talent  like  Dreyfuss,  who 
plays  the  lizard-hearted  manager, 
Maish  Resnick.  In  this  case,  however. 
Long  Wharf  has  gone  with  the  wrong 
top-drawer  talent.  Dreyfuss  boxes 
Maish  into  a tight  little  comer  with 
nowhere  to  turn,  nowhere  to  develop. 
He  starts  as  a one-dimensional  louse  — 
and  stays  there. 

Not  so  Lithgow,  already  a Tony- 
winner  for  his  acting  in  Broadway's 
The  Changing  Room  (originally  a 
Long  Wharf  production).  His  quirky 
humanity  in  the  extremely  tough  role 
of  Harlan  "Mountain"  McClintock 
almost- erases  the  memory  of  his 
predecessors  in  the  part.  Jack  Palance 
— who  starred  with  Keenan  Wynn  in 
the  tv  version— and  Anthony  Quinn, 
who  starred  with  Jackie  Gleason  in 


the  1962  film.  This  is  not  Lithgow's 
first  encounter  w:.th  Rod.  In  the  final 
segment  of  Twilight  Zone— The 
Movie,  Lithgow  ])layed  a frantic 
airline  passenger,  the  role  originated 
on  The  Twilight  Zone  by  William 
Shatner.  Lithgow  cuts  directly  to  the 
tragedy  of  a character  Rod  described 
as  having  striven  all  his  life  for  "a 
glory  that  is  ephemeral  and  fleeting," 
and  who  suddenly  realizes  it  has 
slipped  beyond  his  reach. 


THE  GOOD  OLD  DAYS 

"I  don't  see  any  rough  stuff  anymore.  The  Legion  is 
soft  today.  Yeah,  in  the  old  days  you  signed  up,  and 
that  was  it  for  five  years.  Off  to  boot  camp,  and  no 
questions.  Usually  for  your  first  day.  just  to  put  you  in 
the  mood,  you  were  ordered  to  wipe  the  barrack  floor 
with  your  tongue  while  the  corporal  kicked  you  from 
behind  to  get  you  moving  faster.  But  no  more.  That 
was  the  old  Legion,  when  recruits  were  real  men." 

—A  twelve-year  veteran  (with  Honor  and  Fidelity 
tattooed  on  his  back)  in  "The  French  Foreign  Legion"  by 
John  Gerassi  (Geo,  Dec.) 


BEHOLD,  BAKER! 

Long  before  he  made  Michael  Jackson  a werewolf  in 
the  video-hit  Thriller,  long  before  hi;;  makeup  work  in 
King  Kong  and  Greystoke  and  An  A.merican  Werewolf 
in  London,  a fifteen-year-old  Rick  Baker  was  inspired  by 
William  Tuttle's  makeup  on  The  Twilight  Zone  and 
proceeded  to  turn  himself  into  one  cf  the  doctors  from 
"Eye  of  the  Beholder." 


22  Twilight  Zone 


1.  Two  of  the  movies  mentioned  in  "1984"  and  Beyond 
(page  51)  were  directed  by  the  same  man.  Who  was 
he,  and  what  were  the  films? 

2.  Though  he  never  wrote  for  The  Twilight  Zone,  his 
stories  were  set,  as  he  explained,  "in  a neutral 
territory,  somewhere  between  the  real  world  and  fairy 
land,  where  the  Actual  and  the  Imaginary  may  meet, 
and  each  imbue  itself  with  the  other."  Who  was  he? 

3.  Who  played  the  screen's  first  Frankenstein  monster— 
and  when? 

Answers  below. 


QUOTE 


"Any  group  which  encourages  the  exposure  of  its 
idiot  fringe  to  the  public  deserves  the  bad  press  it  gets." 
— "Why  We  Ain't  Got  No  Respect"  by  Steve  and 


Cornelia  Theys  {Fantasy  Review,  Jan.),  a hard  look  at 


the  "Deirth  Vaders  and  scantily  clad  barbarians"  who've 


turned  the  modem  sf  convention  into  a "freak  show." 


Answers 

(•S6Y$  /o  H°°a  dS  ^saynoD 

S9UI03  iSEj  si4_L)  -AajMEQ  apBag  •[  Xq  pa^oajip 
luajis  XuBduio^  uosipg  oi6I  ® '^I^O  C 

•auioqiMBjq  jaiuBqiBjq  'z 
un-^  suvSo']  puB  qjoq  paparip  uosjapuy  IsBqaijAj  i 


John  Lithgow  plays  Requiem’s  heavyweight, 
with  David  Proval  and  Richard  Dreyfuss. 


A unique  opportunity 
to  hove  your  name 
and  your  quoiity  donation 
presented  on  teievision 
to  miliions  of  viewers. 

Pieose  contact  us 
to  make  your  donation* 
of  art  or  antiques 
for  the  benefit  of 
Pubiic  Broadcasting  station 

GMiliiitai 

The  Thirteen  Coliection 
356  West  58th  Street 
New  York,  N.Y  10019 
(212)  560-2700  weekdays 


Traditional  and  Contemporary  Paintings 
and  Decorative  Art  • Prints  • Judaica  • Antique 
Furniture  • Scuipture  • Orientai  Art  • Tribai  Art  • 
Art  Deco  • Rugs  • Jewelry  • Autographs  and 
Rare  Books  • Stamps  and  Coins  • Photography 
and  Foik  Art 


"Donations  to  HIHIIII  ore  tax-deductible 
to  the  extent  provided  by  low 


Twilight  Zone  23 


You're  Invited  To: 

THE  CREATION 

STAR 


saiNtt 

ncnoN 


CONVENTION 

FEATURING: 

• Dealer  Exhibits 

• Special  Guests 

• Film  Festivals 

• Slideshows 

• Contests 

• Auctions 

• S.F.  Film  Previej^ 

• And  Much  Moi 

Coming  to 
these  cities: 


DETROIT  AREA  ' , 

MARCH  2^-25  at  tfie 
DETROIT  HILTON  ! 
AIRPORT  INN.  31500  ( 
Wick  Rd.  in  Romulus  * ' 
Michigan  with  WALTER 
KOENllG  [Chekov  of 
Star  Trek]  & footage 
previews  of  STAR  TREK 
III  and  DUNE  plus  more! 

SAN  FRANCISCO  on 
MARCH  31-APRIL  1 at  San 
Francisco  Holiday  Inn 
Golden  Gateway.  1500  Van 
Ness  with  BIBI  BESCH  [Or. 
Carol  Marcus  of  TREK  II] 
footage  preview  of  DUNE 
G-  TREK  III.  Discount 
tickets  available  at  all 
COMICS  G COMIX  stores 
in  the  Bay  area. 

ANAHEIM  on  APRIL  7-0 

Disneyland  Hotel.  Mainly 
a Comic  Book  Convention. 

MANHATTAN.  NY  on  MAY 
12-13  at  the  Sheraton  Centre 
Hotel.  52nd  G 7th. 

For  all  free  info  on  these 
conventions  please  send  a 
204:  stamp  to  CREATIONS. 
Box  7155.  Garden  City.  NY 
1 1530.  Or  call  [5 IB]  7147-2033 
business  hours.  Thanks! 


BCXDKS  IN  BRIEF 

For  years  now  I've  been  threatening  to  put  together  an  anthology  thatll 
be  called  Great  Ghost  Stories  Tve  Never  Had  Time  to  Read.  It  would  be  a 
pretty  hefty  volume,  I expect,  brimming  over  with  things  by  Amelia 
Edwards,  Oliver  Onions,  and  Mrs.  J.H.  Riddell.  People  would  ask,  "Have 
you  ever  read  'The  Last  of  Squire  Ennismore'7"  and  I'd  say,  "No,  but  it's  in 
my  book." 

Meanwhile,  it's  fun  to  pick  the  brains  of  those  who  have  actually  read 
every  thing  — which  is  why  I'm  addicted  to  reference  works  such  as  Everett 
F.  BleileFs  Guide  to  Supernatural  Fiction  (Kent  State,  $55),  Marshall  B. 
Tymn's  Horror  Literature  (Bowker,  $29.95),  and  Mike  Ashley's  Who's  Who 
in  Horror  and  Fantasy  Fiction  (Taplinger,  $10.95).  To  these  three 
indispensable  books  we  can  now  add  five  more:  the  five-volume  Survey  of 
Modem  Fantasy  Literature  edited  by  Frank  N.  Magill  (Salem  Press,  $250). 
(That's  right,  $250.  Maybe  you  can  get  your  local  librar;/  to  buy  a copy.) 
Magill  is  the  man  who  gave  us  Masterplots,  the  study  aid  favored  by  those 
too  busy  to  read  Cliff's  Notes,  and  this  new  series  is  organized  in  much  the 
same  way,  with  detailed  plot  synopses— by  more  than  a hundred 
contributors  — of  some  five  hundred  major  works  of  fantasy,  from  Shaw's 
Back  to  Methuselah,  Hardy's  Wessex  Tales,  and  Beerbohm's  Zuleika  Dobson 
all  the  way  down  to  The  Sword  of  Shannara,  the  Thomas  Covenant  series, 
and  the  Gor  books.  (Also  included  is  On  Wings  of  Song  by  TZ  books 
editor  Thomas  M.  Disch.)  The  works  are,  by  and  large,  arranged 
alphabetically  by  title,  so  that  160  pages  separate  the  essay  on  The  Hobbit 
from  the  one  on  The  Lord  of  the  Rings,  Conan  stands  cheek  by  jowl  with 
Melville's  Confidence-Man,  and  The  Centaur  by  Algernon  Blackwood  (1911) 
mbs  shoulders  with  The  Centaur  by  John  Updike  (1963).  (The  Blackwood 
piece,  incidentally,  is  by  Mike  Ashley,  who'll  be  "intervuwing"  the  old 
master  in  an  upcoming  TZ.)  Careful  editing  has  minimized  the  inevitable 
repetition  of  biographical  data  from  essay  to  essay,  though  a few 
discrepancies  have  slipped  through:  one  writer,  for  examjale,  informs  us  that 
"Sarban,"  pseudonym  of  fantasist  John  W.  Wall,  "comes  irom  a word 
meaning  a storyteller  who  travels  with  a caravansary";  another  notes 
simply,  "Sarban  is  Persian  for  'camel-driver.'"  Most  of  the  essays  are 
entertaining  and  incisive  (except  for  those  by  English  critic  John  Clute, 
which  are  virtually  unreadable),  and  all  are,  in  a word,  appreciative;  the 
contributors  appear  to  have  picked  works  they  genuinely  liked. 

The  essays  on  Lovecraft  are  by  Donald  R.  Burleson,  who  had  a wry 
Lovecraftian  tale  in  our  last  issue.  Now  he's  come  out  with  a book, 

H.P.  Lovecraft:  A Critical  Study  (Greenwood  Press,  $29.95),  which  covers 
the  man's  life  (in  brief)  and  work  (in  depth).  It  makes  an  authoritative 
introduction  to  HPL's  fiction,  its  origins  and  influences. 

Lovecraft  always  had  a soft  spot  for  the  reclusive  California  fantasist 
Clark  Ashton  Smith  (1893-1961),  with  whom  he  carried  on  a lengthy 
correspondence.  Smith  wrote  romantic,  self-consciously  "decadent"  poetry  in 
the  manner  of  Baudelaire  and  West  Coast  bohemian  George  Sterling,  carved 
weird  little  stone  statuettes  that  looked  like  Easter  Island  heads,  and  earned 
his  bread,  until  a parental  legacy  intervened,  by  writing  fantasy  tales  for 
the  pulps.  It's  said  he  educated  himself  by  reading  the  dictionary  from 
cover  to  cover,  and  his  prose  often  sounds  as  if  he  were  eager  to  prove  it. 
His  fans  regard  him  as  a more  skillful  stylist  than  Lovecraft;  personally,  I 
find  his  work  rather  cold  and  artificial,  though  colorfully  ornate.  One  of 
his  earliest  novelettes,  purchased  by  Thrill  Book  in  1919  just  one  month 
before  the  magazine  went  under,  appears  in  print  for  the  very  first  time  in 
As  It  Is  Written  (Donald  M.  Grant,  $20),  along  with  a f.iscinating 
introductory  essay  by  Will  Murray,  who  recounts  how  he  and  another 
collector  stumbled  upon  the  manuscript  (pseudonymously  attributed  to 
"De  Lysle  Ferree  Cass")  in  a Syracuse  University  library  and  methodically 
traced  it  back  to  Smith  through  analysis  of  typescript,  hiindwriting,  and 
various  textual  details  ("Who  else  but  CAS  would  write  of  branding  a 
woman  beneath  the  armpits,  where  the  bums  would  not  disfigure  her 
beauty?").  The  novelette  itself,  a strenuously  violent  adventure  set  in  the 
jungles  of  Malaya,  complete  with  lost  cities,  slave  girls,  aind  battling  apes, 
is  as  stylish  and  exotic  as  any  fan  could  ask  for,  and  its  rescue  from  six 
decades  of  oblivion  is  cause  for  celebration.  — TK 


24  Twilight  Zone 


TZ  INTERVIEW 


From  Hoboken  to  Harlem 
uonn  ouyies.  via  outer  space 

HE'S  BLOWN  UP  GIANT  ALLIGATORS  AND  MADE  WEREWOLVES  HOWL 
NOW  THE  BOY  WONDER  OF  SECAUCUS  SEVEN  AND  BABY  IT'S  YOU 
IS  BRINGING  THE  WORLD  ITS  FIRST  BLACK  ALIEN. 


Interviewer  Gerald  Peary  reports: 

By  the  time  you  have  finished  read- 
ing this  sentence,  John  Sayles,  author 
of  The  Anarchists’  Convention,  The 
Last  of  the  Bimbos,  and  Union  Dues, 
will  probably  be  finished  writing  sev- 
eral sentences  of  his  own.  “I  work 
fast,”  Sayles  says— so  fast  that  he 
penned  a prizewinning  short  story 
riding  in  a car  from  L.A.  to  San 
Francisco;  so  fast  that,  as  he  re- 
veals in  the  interview  below,  he 
composed  the  whole  first  draft  of  a 
screenplay,  Ailigator,  on  a cross- 
country plane  ride.  « 

Sayles  isn’t  just  speedy.  He’s 
skillful,  stylish,  and  quite  incredibly 
successful.  Since  1978,  when  Union 
Dues  was  nominated  for  a National 
Book  Award  in  fiction,  Sayles  has  had 
nearly  a dozen  screenplays— he’s  not 
sure  of  the  number — put  into  production. 
These  go  from  Lady  in  Red,  a low-budget 
saga  of  the  last  days  of  John  Dillinger,  to 
his  coauthorship  (with  Richard  Maxwell) 
of  a new  multi-million-dollar  martial  arts 
extravaganza.  The  Chaitenge,  directed 
by  John  Frankenheimer  and  starring 
Toshiro  Mifune. 

Along  the  way,  Sayles  has 
become  Hollywood’s  most 
employed  horror  and 
science-fiction 
writer, 
the 


scenarist  behind  a trilogy  of  semitacky, 
totally  cheapo,  thoroughly  enjoyable 
Roger  German  flicks — Piranha,  Aili- 
gator, and  £iaff/e  Beyond  the  Stars. 
When  he  has  the  time  and  a decent 
budget  ahead  of  him,  John  Sayles 
can  produce  a first-rate,  classy 
genre  script,  such  as  the  one  he 
wrote  for  The  Howling,  among  the 
cleverest  and  most  literate  horror 
movies  in  years. 

There  is  also  John  Sayles,  in- 
dependent filmmaker,  whose  latest 
productions  are  Baby  It’s  Tou,  a 
teenage  tale  set  in  Trenton,  New 
Jersey,  in  1966,  and  The  Brother  from 
Another  Planet,  about  a black  extrater- 
restrial on  the  loose  in  Harlem.  And  of 
course  there’s  Return  of  the  Secaucus 
Seven.  That  Chekhovian  romp  in  the  New 
England  countryside,  about  a reunion  of 
friends  from  the  anti-Vietnam  War  move- 
ment, was  made  on  a miracle  $60,000 
budget.  Sayles  wrote,  edited,  directed, 
and  even  acted  in  Secaucus- which 
has  brought  in  $2  million  dollars,  mak- 
ing it  the  mcst  popular  and  financially 
lucrative  independent  feature 
since  Hester  Street. 

Then  there’s  Lianna, 
made  for  "under  a 
million”  and  with- 
out Hollywood 
stars.  It’s  a 
kind  of 


Photo  © 1982  by  Cort  Wells  Braun 


lesbian  Doll’s  House,  "he  story  of  an  im- 
mature, repressed  young  woman  who 
walks  out  on  her  bourgeois  life,  husband, 
and  children  for  an  affair  with  her  female 
psychology  professor.  Again,  Sayles 
wrote,  directed,  and  edited,  and  he  ap- 
pears on  screen,  behind  a repulsive  mous- 
tache, as  an  open-shirted  filmmaking 
teacher  on  the  make.  Lianna,  says  Sayles, 
was  “one  hundred  percent  shot  in 
Hoboken,  New  Jersey,”  where  he  lives. 
As  he  proudly  points  out.  On  the  Water- 
front was  also  a Hoboken  product.  In  fact, 
Sayles  walks  every  clay  past  the  play- 
ground swing  where  Marlon  Brando’s 
crude  Terry  Malloy  once  courted  Eva 
Marie  Saint. 

Thirty-three-year-olid  John  Sayles  is 
tall,  muscular,  and  certainly  athletic- 
looking  for  a guy  who  spends  too  many 
hours  a day  hunched  over  a typewriter. 
There  is  a slightly  rustic  look,  too.  He 
could  star  in  a Roger  Corman  remake  of 
John  Ford’s  Young  Mr.  Lincoln.  More  like- 
ly, he’d  play  “Shoeless  Joe”  Jackson  in 
his  own  movie  about  the  Chicago  “Black 
Sox”  scandal,  a project  he’s  been  dream- 
ing about  for  years. 

TZ:  Did  you  read  science  fiction  or 
fantasy  as  you  grew  up? 

Sayles:  No,  but  I think  that's  been  an 
advantage.  I have  all  these  great  fresh 
science  fiction  ideas  tliat  probably  have 
been  done  already,  but  1 don't  know  it. 
People  who  read  science  fiction  come 
up  and  say,  "You  get  that  scene  from 
Zelazny,"  or  someboiiy  like  that.  I an- 
swer, "Who  is  Zelazny  ? A screenwriter?" 
TZ:  Surely  you've  read  H.G.  Wells 
and  Ray  Bradbury? 

Sayles:  I never  read  either  of  them.  I 
never  read  the  Dune  books.  Who's  the 
guy  who  wrote  20011  Clarke?  I never 
read  anything  by  hiir . I read  one  book 
by  Philip  K.  Dick  called  Martian  Time 
Slip.  It  just  happened  to  be  where 
there  were  no  other  books  around.  I 
liked  it.  I like  science  fiction,  but  most- 
ly in  the  movies  I saiv,  not  the  fiction. 
TZ:  Which  horror  and  science  fiction 
movies  do  you  like? 

Sayles:  I like  the  original  Thing.  I like 
Them.  If  you  ever  see  Alligator  and 
Them  together,  you  realize  that  the  Los 
Angeles  River  is  the  common  setting.  I 
like  the  original  Invasion  of  the  Body 
Snatchers.  I like  the  film  where  the 
ship  crashes  into  a cow  pasture  and  ev- 
erybody has  those  little  inserts  at  the 
back  of  their  heads.  I forgot  the  name 
of  it.  1 like  The  Day  the  Earth  Stood 
Still  and  INar  of  the  Worlds. 

I saw  most  of  them  originally  on 
the  Early  Show  when  they  had  a 


"Horror  Week"  or  something.  When  I 
visited  Florida  as  a kid,  they  had  a guy 
on  tv  named  P.  T.  Grave,  a guy  down 
in  a dungeon  who  was  tortured  by  a 
giant  hand.  There  was  another  horror 
film  host  who  howled.  I also  liked  the 
really  trashy  pictures,  the  Japanese 
ones  like  Mothra  and  Rodan.  They 
were  on  tv  late  at  night.  I think  if  you 
were  tired  and  a kid,  seeing  them  was 
sort  of  like  being  stoned. 

TZ:  Was  there  any  horror  movie  you 
didn't  appreciate? 

Sayles:  I didn't  like  The  Mummy.  That 
one  freaked  me  out.  There  is  some- 
thing depressing  about  ancient  Egyp- 
tians. Their  whole  culture  was  based 
on  death. 

TZ:  Didn't  you  write  a play  about  a 
mummy? 

Sayles:  Yes,  it  was  called  "New  Hope 
for  the  Dead."  The  title  supposedly 
comes  from  a Reader's  Digest  article 


"I  wrote  a lot  of  the 
scripts  in  the  Port 
Authority  with  bag 
ladies  talking  to  me/' 


about  cryogenics.  The  main  character's 
an  Egyptian  mummy,  but  the  action 
takes  place  in  modern-day  America. 
TZ:  Do  you  consider  any  of  your 
short  stories  to  be  in  the  realm  of  the 
fantastic? 

Sayles:  A little  bit  of  "Fission,"  maybe, 
where  the  young  guy,  Brian,  is  trip- 
ping. He  takes  acid  and  doesn't  quite 
know  it,  and  the  story  gets  "out  there" 
a bit.  "Schiffman's  Ape"  is  a little  bit 
of  a fantasy  because  I invented  a new 
species  of  monkey  for  it. 

TZ:  What  about  "1-80  Nebraska, 
M.490-M.205”?  Your  hallucinating 
truck  driver,  Ryder  P.  Moses,  is  a 
character  out  of  a wild  tall  tale,  and 
his  existence  is  never  verified  in  the 
story. 

Sayles:  "1-80  Nebraska"  has  an  element 
of  the  fantastic  in  that  the  whole 
story's  told  over  CB  radio.  There's 
something  eerie  about  a whole  life  on_ 
the  radio  waves.  Ryder  P.  Moses  is  the 
Flying  Dutchman  character.  You  are 
never  sure  he's  real  until  his  truck 
smashes  up  at  the  very  end.  Even  then, 
you  never  see  him. 


TZ:  Have  you  thought  of  filming  "1-80 
Nebraska"? 

Sayles:  Actually,  that  was  the  first 
thing  I ever  had  optioned.  Some  guy 
who  was  a plastic  squeeze  bottle  mag- 
nate optioned  it  for  a thousand  dollars 
back  in  the  days  when  they  had  tax 
shelters.  He  wanted  to  shoot  a movie 
in  Boca  Raton,  Florida.  The  tax  shelter 
fell  through  three  months  later,  and  the 
movie  didn't  happen.  But  he  still  had 
the  option,  and  he  kept  being  con- 
tacted by  people  from  Texas  who 
wanted  to  do  it  if  Don  Meredith  would 
star  in  it.  I even  wrote  a treatment.  If 
the  trucker  genre  hadn't  been  trashed 
by  so  many  bad  movies,  Roger  Cor- 
man might  have  rhade  it.  Those  other 
trucker  movies  had  nothing  to  do  with 
trucks  at  all.  They  were  Walking  Tall 
in  a truck.  High  Noon  in  a truck.  Only 
Truck-Stop  Mama  was  good,  made  by 
Mark  Lester,  a good  B director.* 

TZ:  When  did  you  first  encounter 
Roger  Corman? 

Sayles:  I met  him  at  a story  conference 
for  Piranha.  Because  the  piranhas  were 
going  to  get  boring  after  a while,  we 
planned  a spread  of  attack  and  threats 
of  attack  instead  of  steady  action. 
Roger  also  asked  me  to  get  a couple  of 
piranhas  into  the  ocean  at  the  end  so 
they  could  breed  and  we  could  have  a 
sequel.  He  thought  New  World  owned 
the  fights,  but  it  was  the  property's 
original  Japanese  owners  who  had 
rights  to  Piranha  2. 

They  never  got  around  to  doing 
it,  though  I saw  some  of  their  script. 
They  had  flying  piranhas,  so  that  even 
if  you  stayed  out  of  the  water,  they 
could  fly  through  the  air  and  grab  you. 
Guys  on  oil  rigs  were  being  eaten. 

TZ:  Did  you  ever  write  Piranha  in  fic- 
tion form? 

Sayles:  They  said  I could  write  the 
novelization  if  I wanted.  I said  I didn't. 
But  afterward  a novelization  was  pub- 
lished in  England  as  "a  novel  by  John 
Sayles."  They  actually  put  my  name 
on  the  book  jacket!  The  Writers  Guild 
won  a small  settlement  for  that. 

TZ:  How  did  you  get  involved  with 
Alligator? 

Sayles:  I had  already  worked  with  its 
director,  Lewis  Teague,  on  Lady  in 
Red,  a movie  that's  very  popular  in 
Europe.  That  was  one  of  the  best 
scripts  I've  written,  though  Lewis  had 
only  twenty-one  days  to  shoot  it,  a 
budget  of  under  a million,  and  no 


‘Lester  has  just  finished  filming  Stephen 
King's  Firestarter,  featured  in  our  next 
issue. — Ed. 


..t 


Twilight  Zone  T7 


Sayles  photo  © 1982  by  Con  Wells  Braun;  Howling  photo  courtesy  Avco  Embassy;  Brother  photos  by  Bob  Marshak. 


John  Sayles 


voice  in  casting  the  first  four  leads. 
Robert  Conrad  was  Dillinger,  a small 
part.  Pamela  Sue  Martin,  recently  on 
Dynasty,  was  the  lead.  She's  okay,  but 
she  hadn't  done  a big  part  before. 

Anyway,  they  had  this  script  for 
Alligator,  but  it  wasn't  a good  script. 
So  Lewis  talked  the  producer,  Brandon 
Chase,  into  hiring  me.  They  gave  me 
this  script  that  was  set  in  Madison, 
Wisconsin.  The  alligator  lived  in  a 
sewer  for  the  whole  movie.  It  never 
got  above  ground. 

TZ:  What  turned  the  alligator  into  a 
fantasy  monster  in  the  original  script? 
Sayles:  A brewery  had  a leak  and  the 
alligator  was  drinking  the  malt,  or 
something  like  that.  It  never  made 
sense  why  it  was  a giant  alligator. 
They  killed  this  alligator  at  an  old 
abandoned  sawmill.  Someone  had  left 
the  power  on  at  the  old  abandoned 
sawmill.  And  someone  had  left  a 
chainsaw  lying  around  the  old  aban- 
doned sawmill.  They  plugged  the 
chainsaw  in  and  threw  it  into  the  alli- 
, gator's  mouth.  All  the  alligator's 
thrashing  around  didn't  even  pull  the 
plug  out,  even  as  the  chainsaw  cut  him 
to  bits. 

So  I rewrote  Alligator.  All  I kept 
was  a giant  alligator,  and  I started 
from  scratch.  I wrote  the  whole  first 
draft  on  the  cross-country  flight  from 
L.A.  to  New  York. 

TZ:  Were  you  following  concrete 
instructions? 

Sayles:  No,  Lewis  just  said,  "This  script 
needs  plot,  character,  mood." 

TZ:  What  was  the  alligator  like? 
Sayles:  They  had  built  an  alligator 
years  earlier,  and  it  was  sitting  on  a 
shelf.  When  they  took  it  off  the  shelf, 
it  fell  apart.  They  had  to  build  another 
alligator.  Well,  there  was  a lot  of  good 
stuff  I wrote  that  never  got  shot, 
whole  subplots,  because  this  alligator 
couldn't  cut  it.  This  alligator  couldn't 
do  the  things  they  said  it  could.  It 
couldn't  go  in  the  water,  for  instance. 
Since  there  was  only  one  foot  of  water 
in  the  sewer,  I decided  the  alligator 
should  end  in  the  Mississippi  River  and 
drown.  But  that  wasn't  filmed.  Earlier 
I'd  wanted  to  burn  the  alligator,  have  a 
guy  pour  gasoline  on  it.  I liked  the 
idea  of  the  alligator  walking  around  on 
fire.  They  said  no,  because  the  alli- 
gator was  booked  for  a personal  ap- 
pearance in  a flatbed  truck  for  publici- 
ty. We  couldn't  destroy  it.  We  had  to 
cut  away  from  it. 

TZ:  So  what  did  you  do? 

Sayles:  Finally  we  blew  it  up.  I wrote 
the  scene  over  the  telephone.  Lewis 


called  and  said,  "Well,  it's  time  to 
shoot  the  end."  I said,  "Oh  well  . . . 
let's  have  the  alligator  take  dynamite 
off  somebody.  We  should  do  some 
crosscutting  at  the  end.  Also,  someone 
should  drive  a car  on  top  of  the  man- 
hole cover  ..." 

TZ:  And  underneath  the  alligator  and 
the  hero  are  trapped  . . . 

Sayles:  Lewis  said,  "That  sounds  fine." 
He  story-boarded  the  conclusion  and 
did  a great  job.  I said,  "Don't  put  any 
dialogue  in  except,  'Move  your  car! 
My  boyfriend  is  down  there  with  the 
alligator!'" 

TZ:  Do  you  think  the  horror  movies 
you  have  written  are  frightening? 


Sayles:  Nothing  in  Piranha  is  really 
scary.  The  piranha  is  nasty  but  not 
scary.  Alligator  isn't  particularly  scary 
either.  That  alligator  wasn't  a very 
mobile  creature.  It  was  kind  of  like  be- 
ing afraid  of  a Sherman  tank.  Some  of 
the  stuff  in  the  sewer  is  pretty  well 
done  and  suspenseful,  but  only  when 
the  alligator  eats  the  cop  at  the  begin- 
ning is  Alligator  scary.  That's  because 
of  the  dangling  fjet. 

There  are  seme  things  that  direc- 
tor Joe  Dante  stuck  into  The  Howling 
that  are  creepy,  including  one  pure 
"pounce."  They  are  going  around  this 
guy's  room  and  this  dog  jumps  out.  I 
didn't  write  the  scene,  so  1 didn't  ex- 


28  Twilight  Zone 


mmt 


Above  left:  Christopher  Stone  turns 
lupine  in  The  Howling.  Right:  Joe 
Morton  plays  an  extraterrestrial  fugitive 
who  travels  up  the  Hudson  to  Harlem 
after  crash-landing  on  Ellis  Island  in 
The  Brother  from  Another  Planet.  Left: 
Sayles  (center)  and  David  Strathairn 
play  Uno  and  Dos,  two  off-world  bounty 
hunters  who  have  come  to  Earth  in 
pursuit  of  the  Brother,  equipped  with 
their  own  brand  of  martial  arts. 


pect  it.  It  scared  t!iie  shit  out  of  me 
when  it  happened.  That's  like  the  guy 
leaping  out  in  Wait  Until  Dark.  It  isn't 
real  suspense  or  cinything.  Alien  is 
another  pounce  movie  with  little  sus- 
pense. In  a bad  pounce  movie,  there's 
a conceit  that  if  tire  pouncer  is  off- 
screen, the  character  on-screen  can't 
see  it.  If  it's  off-frame,  it's  like  being 
hidden  behind  a wall. 

TZ:  How  did  The  Howling  originate? 
Sayles:  There  were  Howling  and  Howl- 
ing II  books  by  Gary  Brandner.  I 
vyasn't  crazy  about  them.  They  had  a 
■"What  kind  of  man  .reads  Playboy" 
sensibility.  In  the  original  novel  there 
was  a rape  scene,  and  then  the  woman 


went  away  to  one  of  those  small  towns 
that  doesn't  exist  anymore.  There  peo- 
ple say,  "Howdy,  ma'am.  Howling? 
What  howling?  We  don't  hear  any 
howling."  So  you  knew  they  were 
werewolves. 

I didn't  use  anything  from  the 
books  except  that  there  were  were- 
wolves around.  But  Avco  Embassy  Pic- 
tures had  to  purchase  both  books. 
Otherwise  somebody  else  could  buy 
Howling  II  and  scoop  them. 

TZ:  When  did  you  get  involved  witfi 
The  Howling? 

Sayles:  Joe  iDante  got  a script  for  The 
Howling  and  said,  "It's  terrible.  Can  I 
bring  in  someone?"  I had  worked  with 


him  already  on  Piranha.  I wrote  The 
Howling  and  Alligator  at  exactly  the 
same  time,  and  also  I was  directing  a 
play  in  a New  York  theater  across  from 
the  Port  Authority  Bus  Terminal.  The 
theater's  heat  broke  down,  so  I wrote  a 
lot  of  both  scripts  in  the  Port  Authority 
with  bag  ladies  talking  to  me. 

TZ:  Was  Joe  Dante  responsible  for  all 
the  scenes  in  The  Howling  from  classic 
horror  movies?  And  for  having  Roger 
Corman  in  a telephone  booth  (in 
homage  to  director  William  Castle  in  a 
telephone  booth  in  Rosemary's  Baby]! 
Sayles:  Yes,  almost  all  the  marginalia  is 
Joe's,  including  having  Roger  and  fan- 
zine editor  Forrest  Ackerman  in  it.  On 


Twilight  Zone  29 


John  Sayles 


Piranha,  Joe  had  people  reading  Moby 
Dick.  He's  into  that  kind  of  stuff. 

TZ:  Does  Corman  like  movie  referen- 
ces in  his  films? 

Sayles:  Roger  doesn't  want  people 
laughing  at  silly  things.  He  likes 
humor,  but  he  wants  the  right  kind  of 
humor.  Usually  the  joke  references  that 
end  up  in  the  films  are  the  ones  he 
didn't  get. 

TZ:  For  Battle  Beyond  the  Stars,  were 
you  instructed  to  look  at  Star  Wars  for 
your  script? 

Sayles:  Actually,  Roger  wanted  The 
Seven  Samurai  in  outer  space,  though 
some  of  his  art  design  things  were 
ripped  off  from  Star  Wars. 

TZ:  Was  that  a satisfactory  film? 
Sayles:  It's  about  two-thirds  as  good  as 
it  could  have  been.  We  didn't  have  the 
budget  to  do  certain  things.  For  in- 
stance, there  is  a character  in  the  film 
who  is  a giant  lizard.  Originally  he  was 
supposed  to  be  a big  black  guy  with  a 
yakuza  tattoo  on  his  back  and  be 
much  more  of  a humanoid  than  this 
• guy  in  a lizard  suit  and  a Captain 
Hook  routine.  The  character  lost  lots 
of  depth.  It's  tough  to  act  in  a lizard 
suit.  Originally  my  script  was  more 
about  death  and  how  these  beings, 
Nestor — five  guys  who  look  exactly  the 
same  and  have  only  one  conscious- 
ness— dealt  with  death.  If  one  of  them 
died,  it  was  only  like  losing  a bit  of 
skin.  Nestor  complete  each  other's  sen- 
tences. When  one  learns  something,  the 
whole  race  of  Nestor  learns  it,  even 
those  back  on  the  planet.  What  it  is, 
they  are  bored  shitless  back  on  the 
planet.  Everyone  knows  what  everyone 
else  is  thinking  and  all  that  stuff.  So 
they  send  some  beings  out  to  have  ad- 
ventures because  it'3  sort  of  like  tv. 
The  others  get  to  have  adventures  in 
their  heads  back  home.  The  Nestor 
part  was  cut  down,  which  happens 
when  you're  on  a tight  schedule.  At 
the  end  of  the  day,  they  say,  "We 
didn't  get  to  this  page,  so  there  it 
goes!" 

TZ:  And  the  ending? 

Sayles:  They  wanted  to  end  Battle  five 
minutes  early  because  one  of  their  pro- 
cess shots  of  spaceships  taking  off 
didn't  work.  They  said,  "Can  you 
write  a scene  that  has  Richard  Thomas 
and  the  woman  who  is  the  lead  in  a 
space  capsule?  We  don't  have  many 
sets  left.  And  do  it  without  a close-up. 
Richard  Thomas  has  grown  a mustache 
since  we  last  shot."  I wrote  the  scene 
on  the  phone. 

There  are  some  good  things  in 
Battle  Beyond  the  Stars.  George  Pep- 


_j)ard  did  nicely  with  his  character,  who 
was  a sort  of  space  trucker.  He  didn't 
like  to  act  without  a highball  in  his 
hand,  so  we  incorporated  that  by  mak- 
ing him  a belt  that  dispensed  ice.  The 
women  characters  are  less  than  they 
could  have  been.  They  tend  to  get  cut 
down  on  Corman  pictures  and  have 
bigger  breasts  and  smaller  brains  than  I 
originally  envisioned. 

TZ:  What  was  your  work  on  The 
Challenge! 

Sayles:  John  Frankenheimer  brought 
me  to  Japan  to  change  all  the  Chinese 
people  into  Japanese  people  in  five 
days.  I went  to  Kyoto  one  day  and 
saw  the  locations  for  a big  battle  scene 
at  the  end.  I was  given  a floor  plan  so 
I could  confer  with  Frankenheimer.  It 
was  fun,  kind  of  like  playing  Gettys- 
burg. The  other  four  days  I was  locked 
up  in  the  Imperial  Hotel  in  Tokyo 
while  Toshiro  Mifune,  the  star,  took 


"People  say, 
'Howling?  What 
howling?  We  don't 
hear  any  howling.'" 


everyone  else  out  to  dinner.  The  type- 
writers kept  breaking  down,  and  there 
are  not  a whole  lot  of  English  type- 
writers there.  I was  tired.  I'd  been  up 
for  three  nights.  Finally  they  went 
downstairs  to  an  office  and  saw  an 
IBM  Selectric  sitting  there.  They  said, 
"Toshiro  Mifune!"  and  took  it  for  me. 
TZ:  How  is  the  movie? 

Sayles:  Mifune  is  great.  Scott  Glenn  is 
good.  I'd  say  it's  about  one-third  to 
one-half  stuff  I wrote.  It's  uneven. 
There's  some  weird  stuff  in  there. 

TZ:  Would  you  ever  take  your  name 
off  the  credits  of  a film? 

Sayles:  At  this  point,  my  agent  always 
says,  "If  you  didn't  take  your  name  off 
Lady  in  Red,  you  might  as  well  keep  it 
on  this  one."  Yes,  I could,  if  they 
turned  things  around  totally,  but  I 
don't  think  they  have.  Lady  in  Red  still 
has  some  feeling  and  substance.  Battle 
turned  out  pretty  good.  The  Howling 
turned  out  very  good.  It's  the  closest 
to  what  I wrote. 

TZ:  What  made  you,  a heterosexual 
male,  want  to  do  a movie  like  Lianna! 
Sayles:  I never  saw  anything  odd 


about  a hetero  male  wanting  to  write 
about  a lesbian  I'elationship.  I've  writ- 
ten about  old  people,  black  people, 
Hispanic  people,  men,  women,  chil- 
dren, werewolves,  alligators.  Neander- 
thals—most  which  I have  never  been 
and  never  will  be. 

TZ:  How  did  gay  women  react  to  it? 
Sayles:  In  general,  they've  been  very 
enthusiastic  and  supportive  of  the  film, 
if  only  because  there  is  some  recogni- 
zable human  behavior  coming  from 
gay  women  on  a movie  screen — 
something  fairly  rare.  I wish  straight 
audiences  had  been  as  enthusiastic  in 
some  cities. 

TZ:  How  much  does  the  high  school 
world  of  Baby  It's  You  resemble  your 
own  background? 

Sayles:  The  milieu  is  very  similar  to 
the  one  I grew  up  in.  I wasn't  a Sheik 
type  [the  movie's  "greaser"  hero],  but  I 
knew  a lot  of  guys  like  him.  One  of 
the  reasons  Amy  Robinson  and  I were 
able  to  work  on  the  story  together  was 
that  our  high  schools  had  been  very 
similar  and  we're  only  two  years  apart 
in  age.  She  hac!  a better  hit  on  the 
girlfriends,  and  I was  more  familiar 
with  how  the  guys  were  thinking  and 
acting. 

TZ:  Many  people  have  compared  The 
Big  Chill  to  Secaucus  Seven,  and  the 
plots  are  obviously  somewhat  similar. 
How  did  you  feel  about  it? 

Sayles:  I had  a pretty  good  time  at  The 
Big  Chill.  The  characters  were  so  dif- 
ferent in  their  v.rlues  and  politics  that 
it  felt  like  a totally  different  movie 
than  Secaucus,  even  if  the  plot  things 
were  similar.  Whether  it's  "derivative" 
or  not  is  no  skin  off  my  ass  one  way 
or  the  other. 

TZ:  Last  year,  you  won  a so-called 
"genius  grant"  from  the  MacArthur 
Foundation  which  pays  you  $30,000  a 
year,  tax-free,  fcT  five  years.  Are  you 
using  it  to  make  The  Brother  from 
Another  Planet! 

Sayles:  No,  the  MacArthur  Award 
pays  the  rent,  and  what's  left  over 
pays  my  taxes.  I'm  making  The 
Brother  with  every  cent  I've  earned 
screenwriting  in  the  last  three  years. 
TZ:  You've  detscribed  The  Brother, 
filmed  in  Harlem,  as  "a  very  non- 
effects, low-budget  science  fiction 
movie  about  piersons  and  cultures 
rather  than  a let  of  hardware."  Will 
the  film  be  as  wild  and  satiric  as  it 
sounds?  Or  will  it  be  more  somber, 
like  The  Man  Who  Fell  to  Earth! 
Sayles:  It'll  be  wild  and  satiric  and 
somber  all  at  the  same  time.  Wish  me 
luck.  10 


30  Twilight  Zone 


IHustratlons  by  Carl  Wesley 


here  was 


;|:  right  about  the  young  man. 

:::  His  suit  appeared  brand  new.  Indeed,  it  glis- 
tened with  an  almost  unnatural  freshness  and  sharp- 
ness of  definition.  Yet  it  was  made  in  a style  that  had 
not  been  fashionable  since  the  late  1950s.  The  lapels 
were  too  wide,  the  trousers  too  baggy;  the  trouser 
legs  terminated  in  one-inch  cuffs.  The  young  man's 
hair  was  short — too  short.  It  was  parted  neatly  on  the 
left-hand  side  and  plastered  down  with  some  sort  of 
grease.  And  his  smile  was  too  wide.  Too  wide,  at 
least,  for  nine  o'clock  on  a Monday  morning  at  the 
Parkdale  Public  Library.* 


HE  WAS  OUT  TO  REVIVE  THE  BAD  OLD  DAYS  OF  TELEVISION 


AND  HE  HAD  THE  GOLD  TO  DO  IT 


• ••• 

••• 

• 

••••••• 

•••••• 

••• 

•• ••••••• 

• •• 

• • ••• 

• • 

• •• 

• •• 

• •• 

• • ••• 

•• 

• •• 

• •• 

••• 

• 

• •• 

•• 

• •• 

• •• 

• •• 

• •••« 

• 

•••••• 

• • 

• •• 

• •• 

• •• 

• i 

• 

• •• 

•••••• 

• • 

• •• 

•••« 

••• 

• 

••• 

•••••• 

• • 

••• 

•••« 

• •• 

• 

• •• 

• • •••> 

• • 

• •• 

• •• 

• • ••• 

• • 

• •• 

by  Andrew  Weiner 


Twilight  Zone  31 


Out  for  the  day,  was  the  librarian's  first  and 
last  thought  on  the  matter.  Out,  that  is,  from  the 
state-run  mental  health  center  just  three  blocks  away. 

"I  would  like,"  said  the  young  man,  "to  be  di- 
rected to  the  tv  and  film  section." 

His  voice,  too,  had  an  unnatural  definition,  as 
if  he  was  speaking  through  some  hidden  microphone. 
It  projected  right  across  the  library.  Several  patrons 
turned  their  heads  to  peer  at  him. 

"Over  there,"  said  the  librarian,  in  a very 
pointed  whisper.  "Just  over  there." 

STRANGER  IN  TOWN.  Series,  1960.  Northstar  Studios  for 
NBC-TV.  Produced  by  KEN  ODELL.  From  an  original  idea 
by  BILL  HURN.  Directors  included  JASON  ALTBERG, 
NICK  BALL,  and  JIM  SPIEGEL.  26  b/w  episodes.  Running 
time;  50  minutes. 

Horse  opera  following  the  exploits  of  Cooper  aka  The 
Stranger  (VANCE  MACCOBY),  an  amnesiacal  gunslinger 
who  wanders  from  town  to  town  in  search  of  his  lost  identi- 
ty, stalked  always  by  the  mysterious  limping  loner  Loomis 
(TERRY  WHITE)  who  may  or  may  not  know  his  real  name. 
Despite  this  promisingly  mythic  premise,  the  series  quickly 
* degenerated  into  a formulaic  pattern,  with  Cooper  as  a 
Shane-style  savior  of  widows  and  orphans.  The  show  won 
mediocre  ratings,  and  NBC  declined  to  pick  up  its  option 
for  a second  season.  The  identity  of  Cooper  was  never 
revealed. 

See  also:  GUNSLINGERS;  HOLLYWOOD  EXISTEN- 
TIALISM; LAW  AND  ORDER;  WESTERNS. 

MACCOBY,  VANCE  (1938?-  ).  Actor.  Born  Henry 

Mulvin  in  Salt  Lake  City,  Utah.  Frequent  guest  spots  in 
WAGON  TRAIN,  RIVERBOAT,  CAPTAIN  CHRONOS,  THE 
ZONE  BEYOND,  etc.,  1957-59.  Lead  in  the  1960  oater 
STRANGER  IN  TOWN  and  the  short-lived  1961  private 
eye  show  MAX  PARADISE,  canceled  after  6 episodes. 
Subsequent  activities  unknown.  One  of  dozens  of  nearly 
interchangeable  identikit  male  stars  of  the  first  period  of 
episodic  tv  drama,  Maccoby  had  a certain  brooding  quali- 
ty, particularly  in  b/w,  that  carried  him  far,  but  apparently 
lacked  the  resources  for  the  long  haul. 

See  also;  STARS  AND  STARDOM. 

— From  The  Complete  TV  Encyclopedia,  Chuck 
Gingle,  editor 

here  was  something  distinctly  odd  about  the 
jjj  young  man  in  the  white  loafers  and  pompa- 
dour  hairstyle,  the  young  man  who  had  been 
haunting  the  anteroom  of  his  office  all  day. 

Had  the  Kookie  look  come  back,  Feldman 
wondered? 

"Look,  kid,"  he  said,  not  unkindly,  "as  my  sec- 
retary told  you.  I'm  not  taking  on  any  more  clients.  I 
have  a full  roster  right  now.  You'd  really  be  much 
better  off  going  to  Talentmart,  or  one  of  those  places. 
They  specialize  in,  you  know,  unknowns." 

"And  as  I told  your  secretary,"  the  young  man 
said,  "I  don't  want  to  be  an  actor,  1 want  to  hire  one. 


One  of  your  clients.  This  is  strictly  a business  propo- 
sition." 

Business  proposition  my  cu^s,  Feldman  thought. 
Autograph  hunter,  more  like.  Eut  he  said  wearily, 
"Which  one  would  that  be?  Lola  Banks?  Dirk 
Raymond?" 

"Vance  Maccoby." 

"Vance  Maccoby?"  For  a moment  he  had  to 
struggle  to  place  the  name.  "Vance  Maccoby?"  he  said 
again.  "That  bum?  What  the  hell  do  you  want  with 
Vance  Maccoby?" 

"Mr.  Feldman,  I represent  a group  of  overseas 
investors  interested  in  independently  producing  a tv 
series  for  syndicated  sale.  We  want  Mr.  Maccoby  to 
star.  However,  we  have  so  far  been  unable  to  locate 
him." 

"I  haven't  represented  him  in  years.  No  one 
has.  He  hasn't  worked  in  years.  Not  since  . . . what 
was  that  piece  of  crap  called?  Max  Paradise!  I don't 
like  to  speak  ill  of  former  clients,  but  the  man  was 
impossible,  you  know.  A drunk.  Quite  impossible. 
No  one  could  work  with  him." 

"We're  aware  of  that,"  tfie  young  man  said. 
"We've  taken  all  that  into  consideration,  and  we  are 
still  interested  in  talking  to  Mr.  Maccoby.  We  think 
he  is  the  only  man  for  the  part.  And  we  believe  that 
if  anyone  can  find  him,  you  can." 

The  young  man  opened  his  briefcase  and  fum- 
bled inside  it.  "We  would  like,"  he  continued,  "to  re- 
tain your  services  towards  that  end.  And  we  are  pre- 
pared to  make  suitable  remuneration  whether  or  not  a 
contract  should  be  signed  with  Mr.  Maccoby  and 
whether  or  not  you  choose  to  rej^resent  him  as  agent 
of  record  in  that  transaction." 

"Kid,"  Feldman  began,  "what  you  need  is  a 
private  detective — " He  stopped  and  stared  at  the  bar- 
shaped object  in  the  young  man's  hand.  "Is  that 
gold?" 

"It  certainly  is,  Mr.  Feldman.  It  certainly  is." 

The  young  man  laid  the  bar  on  the  desk  be- 
tween them. 

"An  ounce  of  gold?" 

"One  point  three  four  ounces,"  said  the  young 
man.  "We  apologize  for  the  unus;ual  denomination." 

He  held  open  the  briefcase.  "I  have  twenty- 
four  more  such  bars  here.  At  the  New  York  spot  price 
this  morning,  this  represents  a value  of  approximately 
fifteen  thousand  dollars." 

"Fifteen  thousand  dollars  !:o  find  Vance  Mac- 
coby?" Feldman  said. 

He  got  up  and  paced  around  the  desk. 

"Is  this  stuff  hot?"  he  asked,  pointing  to  the 
briefcase,  feeling  like  a character  in  one  of  the  more 
banal  tv  shows  into  which  he  booked  his  clients. 

"Hot?"  echoed  the  young  man.  He  reached  out 
and  touched  the  gold  bar  on  the  desk.  "A  few  degrees 
below  room  temperature,  1 would  say." 

"Cute,"  Feldman  said.  "Don't  be  cute.  Just  tell 
me,  is  this  on  the  level?" 


32  Twilight  Zone 


/yti**  f- 


"Oh,  I see,"  said  the  young  man.  "Yes,  ab- 
solutely. We  have  a property  which  we  wish  to  devel- 
op, to  which  we  have  recently  purchased  the  rights 
from  the  estate  of  the  late  Mr.  Kenneth  Odell.  There 
is  only  one  man  who  can  star  in  this  show,  and  that 
is  Vance  Maccoby." 

"What  property?" 

"Stranger  in  Town,"  said  the  young  man. 

“I  knew  it,”  she  said.  “I  knew  you  would  come 

back.” 

“You  knew  more  than  I did,”  Cooper  said.  “I  was 
five  miies  out  of  town  and  heading  west.  But  something 
. . . something  made  me  turn  around  and  come  back 
here  and  face  the  Kerraway  Brothers.” 

“You’re  a good  man,”  she  said.  “You  couldn’t  help 
yourself.” 

“I  don’t  know  if  I’m  a good  man,”  Cooper  said.  “I 
don’t  know  what  kind  of  man  i am.”  He  stared  moroseiy 


"Who  cares?"  Hum  asked.  "Who  the  hell  cares 
who  Cooper  is  or  what  he  did?  Certainly  not  the 
viewers.  Do  you  know  how  many  letters  we  got  after 
we  canceled  Jthe  series?  Sixteen.  Sixteen  letters.  That's 
how  many  people  cared." 

"That  is  our  concern,  Mr.  Hum.  We  believe 
that  we  do  have  a market  for  this  property.  That  is 
why  we  are  making  this  proposition.  We  are  prepared 
to  go  ahead  with  or  without  you.  But  certainly  we 
would  much  rather  have  you  with  us.  As  the  main 
creative  force  behind  the  original  series — " 

"Creative?"  Hum  said.  "Frankly,  that  whole 
show  to  me  was  nothing  but  an  embarrassment.  And 
I was  glad  when  they  canceled  it,  actually.  I wrote 
those  scripts  for  one  reason  -and  one  reason  alone. 
Money." 

"We  can  offer  you  a great  deal  of  money,  Mr. 

Hum." 

Hum  gestured,  as  though  to  indicate  the  orien-j 


at  the  corpses  strewn  out  on  the  ground  around  the  ranch 
house.  “I  just  couldn’t  let  the  Kerraways  take  your  land.” 

He  mounted  his  horse.  “Time  to  be  moving  on,”  he 
said.  “You  take  good  care  of  yourself  and  little  Billy  now.” 

“Will  you  ever  come  back?” 

“Maybe,”  he  said.  “Maybe  after  I find  what  I’m 
looking  for.” 

“I  think  you  found  it  already,”  she  said.  “You  just 
don’t  know  it  yet.  You  found  yourself.” 

“That  may  bes  so,”  Cooper  said.  “But  I still  gotta 
put  a name  to  it.” 

He  rode  off  into  a rapidly  setting  sun. 

The  video  p.cture  flickered,  then  resolved  itself 
into  an  antique  Tide  commercial.  Hum  cut  the  con- 
trols. He  turned  to  the  strange  young  man  in  the  too- 
tweedy  jacket  and  the  heavy  horn-rimmed  glasses. 

"That?"  he  said,  gesturing  at  the  screen.  "You 
want  to  remake  that  . . . garbage?" 

"Not  remake,"  the  young  man  said.  "Revive. 
Continue.  Conclude.  Tell  the  remainder  of  the  story 
of  the  stranger  Cocper,  and  of  the  reacquisition  of  his 
memory  and  identity." 


tal  rugs  on  the  floor,  the  rare  books  in  the  shelves  on 
the  wall,  the  sculptures  and  the  paintings,  the  several- 
million-dollar  Beverly  Hills  home  that  contained  all 
this. 

"I  don't  need  money,  Mr. — what  did  you  say 
your  name  was?" 

"Smith." 

"Mr.  Smith,  I have  all  the  money  I could  ever 
want.  I have  done  well  in  this  business,  Mr.  Smith. 
Quite  well.  I am  no  longer  the  stmggling  writer  who 
conceived  Stranger  in  Town.  These  days  I choose  my 
projects  on  the  basis  of  quality." 

'Tou  disparage  yourself  unnecessarily,  Mr. 
Hum.  We  believe  that  Stranger  in  Town  was  a series 
of  the  highest  quality.  In  some  ways,  in  fact,  it  repre- 
sented the  very  peak  of  televisual  art.  The  existential 
dilemma  of  the  protagonist,  the  picaresque  nature  of 
his  joumeyings,  the  obsessive  fascination  with  the 
nature  of  menvory  . . . That  scene  ..."  The  young 
man's  eyes  came  alive.  "That  scene  when  Cooper 
bites  into  a watermelon  and  says,  T remember  a 
watermelon  like  this.  I remember  summer  days,  sum- 
mer nights,  a cool  breeze  on  the  porch,  the  river 


Twilight  Zone  33 


rushing  by.  I remember  a woman's  lips,  her  eyes,  her 
deep  blue  eyes.  But  where,  damn  it?  Where?'" 

Hum  stared,  open-mouthed.  "You  remember 
that?  Word  for  word?  Oh,  my  God." 

"Art,  Mr.  Hum.  Unabashed  art." 

"Adolescent  pretension.  Fakery.  Bullshit,"  Hum 
said.  "Embarrassing.  Oh,  my  God,  how  embarrassing." 

"In  some  ways  trite,"  the  young  man  conceded. 
"Brash.  Even  clumsy  sometimes.  But  burning  with  an 
inner  conviction.  Mr.  Hum,  you  must  help  us.  You 
must  help  us  bring  back  Stranger  in  Town." 

"You  can't,"  Hum  said.  "You  can't  bring  it 
back.  Even  if  I agreed  it  was  worth  bringing  back — 
and  I'll  admit  to  you  that  I've  thought  about  it  on  oc- 
casion, though  not  in  many  years.  I've  always  had  a 
sense  of  it  as  a piece  of  unfinished  business.  . . . But 
even  if  I wanted  to  help  you,  it  couldn't  be  done.  Not 
now.  It's  too  late,  much  too  late.  You  can't  repeat  the 
past.  Smith.  You  can't  bring  it  back.  It's  over,  fin- 
ished, a dead  mackerel." 

"Of  course  you  can,"  Smith  said.  "Of  course 
you  can  repeat  the  past.  We  have  absolutely  no  doubt 


“Sober?” 
The  fat  man 
laughed. 
\\  “Never  heard 

of  it.” 


K\  it 


on  that  question." 

"Boats  against  the  current,"  Hum  said.  "But 
no,  no,  I can't  agree.  It's  like  v'hen  those  promoters 
wanted  to  reunite  the  Beatles." 

"Beetles?"  Smith  asked.  "What  beetles?" 

"The  Beatles,"  Hum  said,  astonished.  "'She 
Loves  You.'  'I  Want  to  Hold  Ycur  Hand.'  Like  that." 

"Oh,  yes,"  Smith  said  vaguely. 

Where  is  this  guy  from?  Hum  wondered. 
Mongolia? 

"What  exactly  is  your  proposition,  Mr. 
Smith?" 

The  young  man  became  businesslike.  He 
pulled  a sheaf  of  notes  from  his  briefcase.  "One  epi- 
sode of  Stranger  was  completed  but  not  edited  when 
the  cancellation  notice  came  from  the  network.  We 
have  acquired  that  footage,  and  it  would  be  a simple 
matter  to  put  it  together.  We  ha  ve  also  acquired  five 
scripts  for  the  second  season,  commissioned  prior  to 
the  cancellation.  And  we  have  an  outline  of  your  pro- 
posal for  subsequent  episodes,  including  a concluding 
episode  in  which  the  identity  of  Cooper  is  finally 
revealed.  We  would  like  you  to  s;upervise  the  prepara- 
tion of  these  unwritten  scripts  and  to  write  the  final 
episode  yourself.  We  are  looldng  at  a season  of 
twenty-six  fifty-minute  episodes.  For  these  services  we 
are  prepared  to  pay  you  the  equivalent  of  two  million 
dollars."  f 

"The  equivalent,  Mr.  Sm;th?" 

"In  gold,  Mr.  Hum."  The  young  man  picked 
up  the  large  suitcase  he  had  brought  with  him  into 
the  writer's  house.  He  opened  :it  up.  It  was  packed 
with  yellowish  metallic  bars. 

"My  God,"  Hum  said.  "That  suitcase  must 
weigh  a hundred  pounds." 

"About  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  pounds," 
said  Mr.  Smith.  "Or  the  equivalent  of  about  one 
million  dollars  at  this  morning's  London  gold  fixing." 

The  young  man.  Hum  recalled,  had  carried  in 
this  suitcase  without  the  slightest  sign  of  exertion.  He 
hefted  it  now  as  though  it  was  full  of  feathers.  Ob- 
viously he  was  not  as  frail  as  he  looked. 

"Tell  me,  Mr.  Smith.  Who  is  going  to  star  in 
this  show?' 

"Oh,  Vance  Maccoby.  Of  course." 

"Vance  Maccoby,  if  he  is  even  still  alive,  is  a 
hopeless  alcoholic,  Mr.  Smith.  He  hasn't  worked  in 
this  town  in  twenty  years.  I don't  even  know  where 
he  is.  Have  you  signed  up  ^?ance  Maccoby,  Mr. 
Smith?" 

"Not  yet,"  the  young  man  said.  "But  we  will. 
We  will." 

"My  name’s  Loomis,”  said  the  tall  man  with  the 
limp,  as  he  stood  beside  Cooper  at  the  bar.  He  picked 
up  the  shot  glass  and  stared  into  it  thoughtfully. 

“First  or  last?”  Cooper  asked. 

“Just  Loomis,”  said  the  man. 

“I’m  Cooper,”  said  the  other.  “Or  at  least  that’s 


what  I call  myself.  (Dne  name’s  as  good  as  another. 
There  was  a book  in  my  saddlebag  by  a man  named 
Cooper.  ...” 

"You  forgot  your  name?” 

“I  forgot  everything,”  he  said.  “Except  how  to 
speak  and  ride  and  Sihoot.” 

Loomis  drained  his  drink.  “Some  things  a man 
don’t  forget,”  he  said. 

Cooper  stared  at  him  intently.  “Have  I seen  you  in 
here  before?  There’s  something  familiar.  . .” 

“I  don’t  think  so,”  Loomis  said.  “I’m  a stranger 
here  myself.” 

The  edges  of  the  tv  screen  grew  misty,  then 
blurred.  The  picture  dissolved.  Another  took  shape.  A 
bright,  almost  hallucinatorily  bright  summer  day.  A farm 
house.  Chickens  in  a coop.  The  door  of  the  house  open, 
banging  in  the  wind. 

The  camera  moved  through  the  door,  into  a 
parlor.  Signs  of  struggle,  furniture  upended,  a broken 
dish  on  the  floor.  A man  stooped  to  pick  up  the 
fragments. 

“Aimee?”  he  called.  “Aimee?” 

The  camera  moved  on,  into  a bedroom.  A 
woman’s  body  sprawled  brokenly  across  the  bed.  The 
window  open,  the  curtain  blowing.  And  then  a face,  a 
man’s  face,  staring  into  the  room.  His  arm,  holding  a 
gun.  A gunshot. 

Darkness  closed  in.  Outside,  the  shadow  of  a man 
running  away.  A shadow  with  a kind  of  limp. 

And  back,  suddenly,  to  the  bar. 

“You  all  right.  Cooper?” 

“I’m  all  right,”  he  said,  gripping  the  bar  tightly. 
“I’m  all  right.” 

"Yehh,"  said  the  fat  bald  man  in  the  armchair. 
"Let's  hear  it  for  the  strong  silent  ones." 

He  picked  uj)  his  glass  from  the  tv  table  in 
front  of  him,  made  a mocking  toast  to  the  blank 
screen,  then  winked  td  his  old  agent,  Feldman,  sitting 
on  the  couch  next  to  the  young  man.  There  was 
something  a little  odd  about  the  young  man,  but  the 
fat  man  was  too  drunk  to  put  his  finger  on  it.  Maybe 
it  was  the  Desi  Arnaz  haircut  . . . 

"Vance,"  Feldman  said.  "Vance  I — 1 hate  to  see 
you  like  this." 

"Like  what?"  said  the  fat  man  who  had  once 
been  Vance  Maccoby.  "And  the  name  is  Henry. 
Henry  Mulvin." 

He  raised  his  bulk  from  the  armchair  and  wad- 
dled into  the  tiny  kitchen  of  the  trailer  to  refreshen 
his  drink. 

Feldman  looked  helplessly  at  the  young  man. 

"1  told  you,  Smith.  I told  you  this  was  point- 
less. You're  going  to  have  to  find  yourself  another 
boy.  Jesus,  there  must  be  hundreds  in  this  town." 

"There's  only  one  Vance  Maccoby,"  the  young 
m'an  said  firmly.  "Mt.  Feldman,  would  you  leave  us 
together  for  a whik;?  I promise  you  that  I'll  be  in 
touch  in  the  morning  in  regard  to  contractual 


arrangements." 

"Contractual  arrangements?  You're  whistling  in 
the  wind." 

"I  can  be  quite  persuasive,  Mr.  Feldman. 
Believe  me." 

/ believe  you,  Feldman  thought.  Or  what 
would  I be  doing  in  this  stinking  trailer? 

When  the  sound  of  Feldman's  Mercedes  had 
disappeared  into  the  distance,  the  young  man  turned 
to  Vance  Maccoby. 

"Mr.  Maccoby,"  he  said  almost  apologetically, 
"we  have  to  have  a serious  talk.  And  in  order  to  do 
that  you  will  have  to  be  sober." 

"Sober?"  The  fat  man  laughed.  "Never  heard 

of  it." 

"This  won't  hurt,"  the  young  man  said,  pro- 
ducing a flat,  boxlike  device  from  his  pocket  and 
pointing  it  at  the  fat  man.  "It  will  merely  accelerate 
the  metabolization  of  the  alcohol  in  your  blood- 
stream." He  pushed  a button. 

"But  I don't  want  to  be  sober,"  the  fat  man 
said.  He  began  to  cry. 

"When  this  is  all  over,  Mr.  Maccoby,"  the 
young  man  said  soothingly,  "you  need  never  be  sober 
nor  unhappy  ever  again." 

uess  I should  ride  on,”  Cooper  said.  “You  got 
:::::::  a nice  little  town  here  and  I could  easily  settle 
in  it.  Easily.  But  a man  can’t  settle  anyplace 
until  he  knows  who  he  is.” 

“You  think  he  knows?”  the  girl  asked.  “You  think 
that  limping  man  knows^who  you  are?” 

“Yes,  he  does,”  Cooper  said.  “He  knows,  and 
he’s  going  to  tell  me.  Fact  is,  he’s  itching  to  tell  me.  He 
thinks  he  just  wants  to  kill  me,  but  first  of  all  he  wants  to 
tell  me.  Otherwise  he  would  have  just  finished  me  off 
back  at  Oscar’s  barn.  Him  and  me,  reckon  we  got 
ourselves  a piece  of  unfinished  business.  But  he’s  got 
the  better  of  me,  because  he  knows  what  it  is.” 

“He  may  kill  you  yet,”  the  girl  said,  dabbing  at  the 
tears  that  had  begun  to  well  up  in  her  eyes. 

“I  can  take  care  of  myself.” 

“Will  you  come  back?”  she  asked.  “Afterward?” 

“Maybe  so,”  he  said.  “Maybe  so.” 

He  rode  off  into  the  distance. 

"Print  it,"  said  the  director.  "And  see  you  all 
tomorrow." 

Carefully,  Vance  Maccoby  dismounted  from 
his  horse  and  began  to  walk  back  to  his  dressing 
room.  Bill  Hum  fell  in  step  with  him. 

"That  was  good  stuff,  Vance,"  he  said. 

Maccoby  smiled,  although  it  was  more  like  a 
tic.  The  skin  of^his  face  had  been  stretched  tight  by 
the  facelift  operations,  so  that  his  usual  expression 
was  even  blanker  than  it  had  been  in  his  heyday.  He 
took  off  his  hat  and  ran  his  hand  through  his  recently 
transplanted  hair.  Under  the  supervision  of  the 
strange  young  man  called  Smith,  he  had  lost  close  to 

•‘il  Twilight  Zone  35 


a hundred  pounds  in  the  three  iTionths  prior  to 
shooting. 

For  all  of  these  changes,  Maccoby  close  up 
looked  every  one  of  his  forty-six  years.  The  doctors 
could  do  little  about  the  lines  around  his  eyes,  and 
nothing  at  all  about  the  weariness  in  them.  And  yet 
the  camera  was  still  good  to  him,  particularly  in 
black  and  white.  Hum  had  argued  fiercely  on  the 
subject  of  film  stock,  but  Smith  had  been  adamant. 
"It  must  be  black  and  white.  Just  like  the  original. 
Cost  is  not  the  question.  This  is  a matter  of 
aesthetics." 

Black  and  white  helped  hide  the  ravages  of 
time.  It  just  made  Maccoby  look  more  intense,  more 
haunted.  Perhaps  that  was  why  Smith  had  been  so  in- 
sistent. But  Hum  doubted  that.  In  many  ways  Smith 
was  astonishingly  ignorant  of  the  mechanics  of  film- 
making. 

"I  didn't  know,"  Maccoby  said,  "that  he  was 
still  in  here."  He  pointed  to  his  chest. 

"Cooper?" 

"Maccoby,"  he  said.  "Vance  Maccoby.  Inside 
me,  Henry  Mulvin.  Still  ther^  after  all  these  years.  I 
thought  I'd  finished  him  off  for  good.  But  he  was  still 
in  there." 

Maccoby  had  not,  to  Hum's  knowledge, 
touched  a drop  of  alcohol  in  six  months.  He  was  func- 
tioning well  on  the  set,  with  none  of  the  moodiness  or 
tantrums  that  had  marked  his  final  days  in  Holly- 
wood. But  the  stripping  away  of  that  alcoholic  haze 
had  only  revealed  the  deeper  sickness  beneath:  his  un- 
bearable discomfort  with  himself,  or  rather  with  the 
fictional  person  he  had  become — Vance  Maccoby,  tv 
star.  Isolated,  cut  off,  torn  away  from  his  roots,  ex- 
isting only  on  a million  tv  screens  and  in  the  pages  of 
mass-circulation  magazines. 

Was  that.  Hum  wondered — and  not  for  the 
first  time — why  he  had  made  such  a great  Cooper? 
Despite  his  mediocrity  as  an  actor,  there  had  never 
been  anyone  else  to  play  the  role. 

"Vance,"  he  said.  "Henry  ..." 

"Call  me  Vance.  You  always  did.  That's  who  I 
am  here.  For  this  little  command  performance." 

"Vance,  why  did  you  agree  to  do  this?" 

"Why  did  you  agree.  Bill?  And  don't  tell  me  it 
was  the  money.  You  don't  care  about  the  money  any 
more  than  I do.  You  have  all  you  want.  I had  all  I 
needed  to  stay  drunk." 

"I  don't  know,"  Hum  said.  "Smith  ...  He  just 
made  it  seem  so  important.  Like  there  were  millions 
of  people  just  sitting  around  waiting  for  a new  season 
of  Stranger  in  Town.  He  flattered  me.  And  he  temp- 
ted me.  This  was  my  baby,  remember,  and  the  net- 
work killed  it.  And  I suppose  there  was  a part  of  me 
that  always  wanted  to  do  this.  Finish  it  properly,  tie 
up  all  those  loose  ends  . . . And  yet  I know  the  whole 
thing  is  crazy.  This  show  will  never  run  on  a U.S. 
network.  Not  in  black  and  white.  Unless  we  put  it 
straight  into  remns."  He  snickered.  "Maybe  that's  the 


Despite  his 
mediocrity  as 
an  actor, 
there  had 
^ never  been 
anyone  eise  to 
piay  the  roie. 


plan.  I mean,  who  would  even  know  the  difference? 
This  whole  thing  is  so — 1960." 

They  had  reached  Maccoby's  dressing  room. 

"Well,"  Maccoby  said,  "Smith  is  telling  the 
truth,  in  a way.  There  are  millions  of  people  waiting 
for  this." 

"In  Hong  Kong?  North  Korea?  I mean,  where 
does  he  expect  to  sell  this  stuff?  Who  are  these  over- 
seas investors  of  his?  How  can  he  piss  so  much 
money  away  like  water,  and  how  does  he  expect  to 
ever  recoup  it?  The  whole  thing  is  bizarre." 

"Oh,  it's  bizarre  all  right,"  Maccoby  said.  "It 
sure  is  bizarre."  He  glanced  up  briefly  into  the  hard 
blue  sky.  Then  he  said,  "Well  I better  get  cleaned 
up." 

“You  killed  her,”  Cooper  Said.  “You  killed  her  and 
you  tried  to  kill  me.  But  somehow  I survived.  And  I crawled 
out  of  there,  halfway  out  of  my  mind.  And  I crawled  into 
the  desert.  And  a wagon  train  found  me.  And  they  car- 
ried me  along  with  them,  and  nursed  me.  And  when  I 
woke  up  I didn’t  even  know  my  name.  You  took  it.  You 
took  away  my  name.” 

"Stevens,”  Loomis  said.  “Brad  Stevens.”  His 
hand  did  not  waver  on  the  gun. 

“Oh,  I remember  that  now,”  he  said.  “I  remember 
it  all.  I remember  Aimee  ...  I remember  it  all.” 

“I’m  glad  about  that,”  Loomis  said.  “I  truly  am. 
I’ve  been  waiting  for  you  to  remember  for  the  most  wear- 
isome time.  Not  much  sense  in  killing  a person  when  he 
doesn’t  even  know  why.” 

He  tightened  his  grip  on  tne  trigger.  “But  there’s 
something  more,”  he  said.  “More  than  that.  Something 
you  couldn’t  remember,  because  you  never  knew. 
Something  I been  meaning  to  toll  you  for  a long  time. 
Longer  than  you  could  imagine.” 

“Make  sense,”  said  the  rian  who  called  himself 


36  Twilight  Zone 


Cooper.  “Make  some  kind  of  sense.” 

“Your  name,”  Loomis  said.  “It  ain’t  really 
Stevens.  Not  really.  The  name  you’ve  been  trying  so 
hard  to  remember  isn’t  even  your  real  name.  Isn’t  that  a 
hoot?  Isn’t  that  the  funniest  thing  you  ever  heard?”  He 
laughed. 

“Make  sense,”  said  the  man  on  the  ground. 
“You’re  still  not  mak  ng  any.” 

“Stevens,”  Loomis  said.  “That’s  just  a name  they 
gave  you.  The  folks  who  picked  you  out  at  the  orphan- 
age. Picked  out  the  pretty  little  baby.  That  was  their 
name.  Good  God-fearing  folks.  But  they  only  wanted  the 
one,  and  they  wanted  a baby,  not  a full-grown  child.  And 
for  sure  they  didn’t  v/ant  a gimp.” 

“I  was  adopted?  You’re  saying  I was  adopted? 
How  could  you  know  that?” 

“I  was  there,  little  brother.  I was  there.  I was  the 
gimp  they  passed  ov'er  for  the  pretty  little  baby.  I was 
only  four  years  old  at  the  time.  But  some  things  you  real- 
ly don’t  forget.” 

“Brother?” 

“Right,”  Loomis  said.  “You  and  me,  we’re 
children  of  the  very  same  flesh.  Arnold  and  Mary  Jane 
Loomis.  Nobody  e\'er  changed  my  name.  Nobody 
wanted  the  poor  littki  cripple  boy.” 

“Our  parents  ...” 

“Dead,”  Loomis  said.  “Indians.  They  killed  Pa. 
Killed  Ma,  too,  after  they  got  through  with  her.  Would 
have  killed  us,  too,  except  they  got  interrupted.” 

Slowly,  deliberately,  the  man  who  had  been  called 
Cooper  climbed  to  his  feet.  “We  were  separated?”  he 
said. 

“For  nearly  thirty  years.  You  eating  your  good 
home  cooking  and  me  eating  the  poorhouse  gruel.  You 
growing  into  a solid  citizen  and  marrying  and  farming. 
And  me  drifting  from  town  to  town  like  a piece  of  dried- 
up  horse  dung  blown  around  by  the  wind.  Never  finding 


a place  I could  call  home.  And  looking,  looking  for  my  lit- 
tle brother.  And  finally  I found  you  ...” 

“Why?”  he  asked.  “Why  did  you  do  it?” 

“I  didn’t  mean  to  . . .”  Loomis  faltered.  “It  was 
like  a kind  of  madness  came  over  me.  Seeing  your 
house  and  your  farm  and  your  wife,  everything  you  had 
and  I didn’t,  everything  I hated  you  for  having  . . . But  I 
don’t  know.  Maybe  that  was  what  I was  intending  all 
along,  intending  to  make  you  suffer  just  a little  of  what  I 
had  to  suffer.  I don’t  kripw.  I don’t  think  I meant  to  kill 
Aimee,  but  when  I did  I knew  I would  have  to  kill  you, 
too.  And  I thought  I did.  And  then  I saw  you  alive.  And  I 
realized  that  you  didn’t  remember,  didn’t  remember  a 
single  thing.  So  I just  waited,  watched  and  waited,  until 
you  did  start  to  remember.  So  you  would  know  why  I had 
to  kill  you.  And  now  it’s  time.  It’s  time.” 

“You  can’t  stand  yourself,  brother,  can  you?” 
said  the  man  who  had  been  called  Cooper.  “You  and 
you,  they  don’t  get  along  at  all.  I can  understand  that.  I 
been  through  a little  of  that  myself.  Not  knowing  who  the 
hell  I was  or  what  I might  have  done  or  what  I should  be 
doing.  But  you  find  out.  Maybe  not  your  name,  but  how 
you  should  be  living.  If  you’re  any  good  at  all,  you  find 
that  out.” 

He  took  a step  toward  Loomis.  “But  you’re  not 
any  good,  brother,  and  you  never  were.  Sure,  you  had 
some  lousy  breaks,  sure  you  did.  But  that  isn’t  any  kind 
of  excuse  for  what  you  did.  You’re  just  no  good  to 
anyone,  not  even  yourself.  And  if  you  kill  me,  you’ll  have 
nothing  to  live  for.  Nothing.  Because  nobody  will  know 
your  name  and  nobody  will  care.” 

Another  step. 

“But  I care,  brother.  I care  in  the  worst  way.  You 
made  me  care.  Buzzing  around  me  like  some  housefly 
waiting  to  be  swatted.  Waiting  for  me  to  remember.  Try- 
ing to  make  me  remember.  Remember  you.” 

Another  step.  He  was  only  a few  paces  from 

i 


Twilight  Zone  37 


Loomis  now.  He  glanced  down  to  his^own  gun  on  the 
floor  of  the  stable.  It  was  nearly  within  reach. 

“Stay  there,"  Loomis  said.  “Stay  right  where  you 

are.” 

He  took  another  step. 

“I  remember  you,  brother.  For  what  you  did  to 
me.  No  one  else  will.  Kill  me  and  you’ll  be  all  alone 
again,  alone  with  yourself,  the  way  you  always  were. 
Run  away  now  and  you’ll  have  something  to  keep  you 
going.  Fear,  brother.  Fear.  That’s  a kind  of  something. 
Something  to  make  you  feel  alive.  And  me,  too.  I’ll  have 
something  to  keep  me  going,  too.” 

Loomis  took  a step  backward . “Don’t  move,”  he 
said.  “Don’t  move  or  I’ll  kill  you  now.” 

“What  are  you  waiting  for?”  his  brother  asked 

him. 

The  gun  wavered  in  his  hand. 

The  man  who  had  called  himself  Cooper  stopped 
swiftly  and  scooped  up  his  own  gun  from  the  floor. 

Two  guns  blared. 

Loomis  stood  straight  for  a moment.  A strange 
smile  spread  over  his  face.  And  then,  slowly,  he  crum- 
pled to  the  floor  of  the  stable. 

The  other  continued  to*  stand,  in  the  clearing 
smoke,  holding  his  wounded  left  arm. 

“Damn,”  he  said  softly.  “Damn.” 

he  lights  in  the  screening  room  came  up.  One 
man  was  applauding  vigorously.  Smith.  All 
:::  heads  turned  toward  him. 

"Bit  of  an  anticlimax,"  Hum  said,  "don't  you 
think?  We  were  afraid  it  might  be.  I think,  in  a way, 
we  were  afraid  of  having  to  finish  it." 

"On  the  contrary,  Mr.  Hum,"  Smith  said.  "On 
the  contrary.  It's  absolutely  perfect.  Perfect.  Real 
mythic  power.  A glimpse  into  the  human  condition. 
Into  a world  in  which  brother  must  slay  brother,  even 
as  Cain  slew  Abel.  Archetypal,  Mr.  Hum.  Arche- 
typal." 

He  stood  up  and  addressed  the  small  crowd. 

"I  want  to  thank  all  of  you,"  he  said,  "for 
making  this  possible.  In  particular  I want  to  thank 
Mr.  Hum  and  the  one  and  only  Vance  Maccoby, 
without  whom  none  of  this  would  have  been  possi- 
ble." 

Maccoby  grinned  in  a spaced-out  way.  Hum 
could  smell  the  drink  on  his  breath  from  two  rows 
away. 

The  cure  didn't  take,  he  thought.  Well,  it  took 
for  long  enough. 

"I  will  be  leaving  town  tomorrow,"  Smith  said, 
"and  I will  not  be  returning  in  the  near  future.  So  let 
me  just  say  what  a wonderful  group  of  people  you 
have  been  to  work  with,  and  what  a great,  great 
privilege  this  has  been  for  me." 

There  was  still.  Hum  reflected,  something 
rather  odd  about  the  young  man.  He  was  dressed 
now  in  what  could  pass  as  the  uniform  of  the  young 
Hollywood  executive — safari  jacket,  open-collar 


sports  shirt,  gold  medallion,  aviator  shades — and  yet 
there  was  still  something  not  quite  right  about  it.  He 
looked  as  if  he  had  just  stepped  out  of  central  casting. 

"The  show,"  Hum  said,  as  Smith  headed 
toward  the  door.  "When  is  the  show  going  to  run?" 

"Oh,  soon,"  Smith  said.  "Not  in  this  country, 
at  the  present  time,  but  we  have  plenty  of  interest 
overseas." 

A Canadian  tax  shelter?  Hum  wondered.  One 
of  those  productions  that  nevc'  actually  play  any- 
where? But  surely  they  would  not  have  gone  to  so 
much  trouble. 

"Where?"  he  persisted.  "Where  will  it  run?" 

"Oh,  faraway  places,"  Smith  said,  fingering  his 
aviator  shades.  "Far,  far  away."  He  disappeared 
through  the  door.  Hum  would  not  see  him  again. 

"Far  away,"  Hum  repeated  to  himself. 

"Very  far,"  Maccoby  said,  staggering  a little  as 
he  rose  from  his  seat  in  the  back  row.  He  was  quite 
drunk. 

"You  know  something  I don't  know?"  Hum 
asked,  following  him  from  the  screening  room. 

"Very  far,"  Maccoby  repeated,  as  they  stepped 
into  the  parking  lot.  The  smog  was  thin  that  night. 
Stars  twinkled  faintly  in  the  sky.  "About  twenty  light 
years,"  he  said,  looking  up. 

"What?" 

"Twenty  light  years,"  he  repeated.  "Twenty 
years  for  the  signals  to  reach  them.  Distant,  distant 
signals.  And  then  they  stop.  The.'  signals  stop.  Before 
the  story  ends.  And  they  don't  like  that." 

"They?" 

"Smith's  people.  Our  overseas  investors.  Our 
faraway  fans." 

"Wait  a minute,"  Hum  sa:d.  "You're  telling  me 
that  our  show  was  picked  up  . . out  there?' 

Now  he,  too,  craned  his  head  to  look  up  into 
the  night  sky.  He  shivered. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  he  said. 

"Sure  you  do,"  Maccoby  said. 

"But  it's  crazy,"  Hum  said.  "The  whole  thing  is 
incredible.  Up  to  and  including  the  fact  that  they 
picked  on  our  show." 

"I  wondered  about  that  myself,"  Maccoby  said. 
"But  you've  got  to  figure  that  thc-ir  tastes  are  going  to 
be,  well  . . . different." 

"Then  he  really  meant  it,"  Hum  said.  "When 
he  said  that  our  show  was — what  did  he  call  it?  The 
peak  of  televisual  art." 

Maccoby  nodded.  "He  really  meant  it." 

"Art."  Hum  tested  the  v/ord  on  his  tongue. 
"Life  is  short  but  art  is  long.  Isn't  that  what  they  say? 
Something  like  that,  at  any  rate." 

"Right,"  Maccoby  said  absently.  "Art.  Or 
something  like  that." 

He  was  staring  now  at  the  great  mast  of  the  tv 
antenna  on  the  hill  above  the  studio. 

"Signals,"  he  said  again.  "Distant,  distant 
signals."  fS 


38  Twilight  Zone 


by  John  Sladek 

JOIN  RUSTY  AND  THE  SPACE  PIRATES  ON  A JOURNEY  INTO  STRANGENESS— 
AND  FOR  HEAVEN'S  SAKE,  DON'T  ASK  WHAT  IT  ALL  MEANS! 


hen  it  was;  the  robot's  turn  to  tell  a story, 
it  first  raiiied  its  glass  in  a toast. 

"Absent  friends." 

The  rest  of  ns  drank  while  the  robot  held  its 
empty  glass  to  its  painted  smile.  I don't  know  what 
the  others  thought  of  this  gesture,  but  it  made  me 
uneasy.  It  always  does.  I've  been  traveling  to  Mars 
and  back  for  over  fifteen  years — Eagleburg  and 
Eurograd  being  my  sales  territory  for  Hogpress 
Sportswear — so  I've  been  in  a lot  of  taverns  like  this 
one,  where  travelei's  sit  around  the  fake  fire  and 
swap  fake  stories.  But  every  time  I see  a robot 
taking  a fake  drink  from  an  empty  glass,  I feel 
uneasy.  I feel  as  though  the  world  had  gone  wrong, 


and  that  somehow  it  was  my  fault. 

"Absent  friends,"  the  robot  said  again.  "Some 
more  absent  than  others."  The  painted  smile  never 
wavered.  "Sitting  here  with  all  of  you  around  this 
fire  reminds  me  of  some  absent  friends  of  my  own, 
people  I sat  around  another  fire  with,  swapping 
stories  a long  time  ago.  Back  in  '32  it  was,  when  I 
shipped  out  for  Mars  on  a tub  called  the 
Doodlebug." 

"As  a steward?"  someone  asked. 

"No!  The  Doodlebug  was  strictly  union — no 
robot  work  allowed,  or  the  whole  fleet  would  have 
walked  out.  No,  I was  a passenger  on  that  accursed 
vessel." 


Twilight  Zone  39 


“It  wasn’t  my  only 
profession  before  piracy,’’ 
he  said.  “Once  i was  a 
nuciear  physicist.’’ 


Someone  asked,  “Why  accursed?" 

The  rest  of  us  settled  back,  staring  into  the 
fire  at  the  faces  of  our  own  absent  friends  or  other- 
wise blanking  our  minds,  ready  for  the  tinhead's 
tale. 

Call  me  Rusty  (it  began).  I was  on  my  way  to 
Mars  to  help  with  some  mission  work  in 
Eagleburg — the  Reverend  Orifice  Flint 
Crusade,  ever  hear  of  it?  Very  big  in  those  days. 
People  liked  Reverend  Orifice's  way  of  preaching. 
He  was  a ventriloquist,  see,  and  I guess  that  little 
dummy  of  his.  Holy  Rollo,  was  just  about  the  most 
popular  personality  on  Earth.  Or  on  Mars.  There 
was  saturation  broadcasting  of  the  services  by 
satellite  to  all  parts  of  both  planets. 

I was  sent  to  Mars  to»  fill  in  for  somebody, 
since  I understudied  all  parts  of  the  service.  I could 
preach,  heal,  sing,  everything.  This  time  I had  to 
play  a hopeless  cripple  who  gets  an  instant  Crusade 
cure.  The  regular  guy  had  slipped  a disc  throwing 
away  his  crutches. 

The  Doodlebug  was  not  a happy  ship.  It  was 
a freighter  carrying  mainly  dairy  cattle,  but  you 
could  tell  it  hadn't  always  been  so  lowbrow.  I had  a 
lot  of  time  to  wander  about,  and  I found  a few 
indications  of  former  glory.  There  were  the  remains 
of  a grand  ballroom,  its  floor  ruined,  dusty  gilt 
chairs  piled  in  the  corners,  an  eighty-meter  cobweb 
running  from  the  chandelier  to  a far  corner,  where  I 
found  a faded  dance  card.  There  was  a giant 
Gentlemen's  Cloakroom  with  marble  walls  and 
sinks,  two  barber  chairs,  and  a shoeshine  stand. 
There  was  a "First  Class  Only"  coffee  room  where 
brocaded  sofas  rotted  near  the  collapsed  carcass  of  a 
grand  piano.  There,  in  the  back  of  the  drawer  of  a 
rosewood  writing  desk,  I found  a supply  of 
notepaper  with  the  curious  heading  "S.S.  Dolly 
Edison."  The  name  seemed  familiar,  damned 
familiar,  but  I couldn't  place  it  at  the  time. 

There  was  also  an  incomparable  library  where 
I spent  long  weeks  and  short  months  reading, 
viewing,  and  listening.  There  was  no  fixed  pattern  to 
my  reading.  For  a time  I chose  only  books  in  which 
robots  named  Robbie  appeared;  then  I read  only  the 
autobiographies  of  ex-nuns. 

It  all  helped  take  my  mind  off  the  constant 
problems  of  the  Doodlebug.  We  seemed,  first  of  all, 
to  hit  more  than  our  share  of  asteroid  storms.  Once 
a high-speed  object  which  smashed  through  the  hull 
and  fifteen  bulkheads  before  coming  to  rest  turned 
out  to  be  a frozen  Long  Island  duckling.  How  it 


came  to  be  whizzing  around  in  space  was  never 
explained,  and  it  was  just  one  more  incident  to  make 
the  crew  uneasy. 

The  crew  were  Finns,  so  I was  never  able  to 
find  out  what  their  quarrel  was  with  Captain  Reo. 
He,  the  only  English-speaker,  kept  denying  to  me 
that  there  was  any  trouble  aboard,  but  the  men  and 
women  of  the  crew  continued  to  gather  in  muttering 
groups,  glower  at  the  captain,  and  even  brandish 
weapons.  One  day  a mob  of  them  appeared, 
marching  toward  the  captain's  cabin  with  a space  suit 
held  aloft.  I deduced  that  they  intended  to  cast  him 
adrift  or  perhaps  maroon  him  on  Deimos.  But  this 
mutiny  was  cut  short  by  the  next  calamity:  we  were 
attacked  by  pirates. 

I heard  the  captain's  voice  over  the  PA. 
"Pirates!  We're  being  boarded!"  Then  a shot,  a 
moment  of  silence,  and  then  corfused  noises  like  figs 
being  gulped  rapidly  by  a dozen  small  dogs. 

From  time  to  time  I heard  shots  from  various 
parts  of  the  ship  as  the  pirates  killed  off  the  rest  of 
the  crew.  I relaxed  and  watched  movies — I found 
in  the  library  the  excellent  Russian  version  of 
Finnegans  Wake — and  awaited  further  development. 

In  the  end,  it  didn't  turn  out  too  badly.  The 
pirates  wiped  out  all  human  life  aboard  the 
Doodlebug,  but  spared  me  to  cook  and  clean.  The 
only  problem  was,  I got  a little  too  energetic  in  my 
cleaning.  Somehow  I managed  to  knock  the  vacuum 
cleaner  into  some  steering  mechcmism,  and  I broke  it 
— the  mechanism,  not  the  vacuum  cleaner.  The  good 
ship  Doodlebug  began  heading  srraight  for  the  sun. 

At  first,  the  pirate  band  was  naturally 
dismayed  to  find  out  that  we  were  soon  to  be 
"exalted"  (as  the  astrologers  usiid  to  say).  But  you 
can  get  used  to  anything.  We  decided  not  to  spend 
our  last  days  moping  or  complaining,  but  to  make 
the  best  of  them.  To  acclimat:ze  everyone  to  the 
inevitable  rise  in  temperature,  we  turned  up  the  heat 
in  advance.  Food  rationing  began  at  once— not 
because  there  was  any  shortage,  but  to  focus  human 
minds  on  the  ordeal  ahead. 

Since  heat  and  starvation  soon  made  most  of 
the  pirates  insomniac,  we  spent  our  time  telling 
stories.  These  shared  experiences  bound  us  together 
closely,  in  a comradeship  that  had  no  regard  for 
race,  creed,  color,  sex,  age,  height,  weight,  IQ, 
identifying -scars,  even  lack  of  protoplasm.  We  might 
be  doomed  or  damned,  but  we  were  darned  glad  of 
the  company. 

Eventually  the  heat  was  so  intense  that  the 
humans  preferred  not  to  touch  tlie  metal  deck  at  all. 
They  lay  in  hammocks  while  I brought  them  iced 
salt  water.  All  groaned  or  gasped  their  way  through 
their  stories  until  it  was  the  turn  of  little  Jack  Wax, 
the  former  tree  surgeon. 

"It  wasn't  my  only  profession  before  piracy," 
he  said.  "Once  I was  a nuclear  physicist." 

Others  expressed  surprise. 


40  Twilight  Zone 


"I've  never  bragged  about  it,"  he  said,  "because 
that's  the  kind  of  guy  I am.  I studied  at  Idaho  Agricul- 
tural and  Military  College,  which  I admit  is  not  a 
place  famous  for  its  contributions  to  pure  science. 
Idaho  A&M  tended  to  concentrate  on  potato-related 
courses  like  the  Biology  of  Potato  Blight,  Spud  Dietet- 
ics, and  Potato  Printing  Technology. 

"But  it  so  happened  that  my  tutor  was  the 
brilliant,  eccentric,  but  original  Tang  Wee.  Professor 
Wee,  in  case  anyone  here  doesn't  know  it,  is  the 
discoverer  of  'absent  particles.'  These  were  predicted 
way  back  in  1951  by  Luftworp,  who,  as  you 
know — " 

Our  blank  looks  told  him  we  didn't  know.  He 
explained; 

"Luftworp  was  another  loner.  His  work 
wasn't  taken  seriously  until  the  turn  of  the  century, 
partly  because  he  had  no  formal  academic  creden- 
tials— he  was  a circus  roustabout  by  trade — and 
partly  because  of  the  way  he  presented  his  papers. 
Despite  being  barely  literate,  Luftworp  chose  to  put 
all  his  work  into  verse.  I remember  one  terrible 
sonnet: 

“When  a right-fand  red  down-quark  emits 
A roseate  X particle  with  charge 
Electric  minus  four-thirds,  not  too  large, 

The  dexter  scarlet  quark  then  loses  its 
Name;  a right-hand  positron  exits. 

Anon  X particle  of  ruby  hue  doth  barge 
Into  a green  lef;-handed  up-quark,  marg- 
inally southpaw  verdure  changing:  it’s 
Metamorphosed  to  an  antiblue 
Left-handed  ant  (up)  quark,  so  it  seems  ...” 

One  of  the  other  pirates  signaled  that  the 
recitation  was  over  by  drawing  his  gun  and  smiling 
oddly.  Jack  Wax  smiled  too.  "I  forget  the  rest,"  he 
said.  "Anyway,  the  endings  of  his  poems  were  never 
important.  In  fact,  his  greatest  work.  On  the 
Orangeness  of  Absence,  has  only  one  line.  I puzzled 
over  it  for  years  before  I met  Luftworp  in 
person— he  was  a very  old  man  then,  on  this  third 
heart  and  second  liver — and  I asked  him  outright. 

"'Sir,  is  one  line  enough  to  express  one  of  the 
fundamental  truths  upon  which  is  built  the  entire 
edifice  of  modern  physics?' 

"He  sat  for  a long  moment,  turning  the 
champagne  glass  in  his  gnarled  hand.  Did  I mention 
we  were  at  a banquet  in  his  honor?  Even  though  he 
was  no  longer  allowed  to  eat  or  drink  anything, 
they'd  put  an  empty  glass  in  his  hand.  He  sat 
turning  it  for  a moment,  then  he  said,  'Okay, 
smartass,  you  find  a rhyme  for  "orange"  and  I'll 
write  another  line.'  My  opinion  of  Luftworp's  work 
was  lowered  from  that  moment  on. 

"Others,  however,  regard  his  work  as 
classical.  He  did,  after  all,  lay  the  theoretical 
foundations  for  'absent  particles'  by  showing  that 
absence  and  antiabsence  are  essential  properties  like 


charm  or  spin  or — " 

At  this  point,  several  of  the  other  pirates 
interrupted  to  complain  they  didn't  know  what  he 
was  talking  about.  Waxy  responded  with  a long 
lecture  on  hadrons,  leptons,  mesons,  three  kinds  of 
neutrinos,  five  kinds  of  quarks,  eight  gluons, 
antiparticles,  and  so  on.  He  then  went  on  to  list  all 
the  properties  these  particles  could  possess.  We  all 
followed  him  as  he  explained  that  particles  could 
have  different  masses  and  charges,  even  different 
energies  and  spins.  But  we  were  lost  when  he  moved 
on  to  more  mysterious  properties  like  color,  charm, 
and  strangeness.  "It's  very  simple,"  he  kept  saying. 
"A  quark  comes  in  red,  green,  or  blue,  and  for  each 
color  there  are  six  theoretical  flavors  ..." 

That,  he  explained,  was  only  the  beginning. 
"In  the  1960s  two  researchers  called  Disch  and 
Sladek  found  a particle  called  the  nullitron,  which 
changed  everything.  The  nullitron  has  no  properties 
of  any  kind  and  is  in  fact  not  very  interesting.  But 
its  existence  (or  not)  opened  up  new  possibilities. 
Before  long,  others  were  finding  particles  with  many 
new  properties:  odor,  feel,  political  persuasion, 
average  attendance,  and  gas  mileage.  Then  Tang 
Wee,  following  Luftworp,  found  the  most  significant 
property  of  all:  absence. 

"I  remember  well  the  day  when  Nobel  Prize 
winner  Giro  Poloni  sent  his  famous  telegram  to  Wee 
congratulating  him  on  his  discovery:  'Absence  will 
make  the  art  go  yonder.'  That's  just  what  happened, 
too.  Theoretical  work  became  even  more  metaphys- 
ical than  ever,  and  Research  followed.  I myself 
studied  bubble  chamber  photos  to  see  what  did  not 


ABSENT  FRIENDS 


appear  on  them  . . . confirmed  Wee's  conjecture  that 
. . . gravity  due  to  . . . objects  being  pushed  together 
by  the  pressure  of  absent  ..." 

I found  myself  dozing — the  heat  ivas  intense 
and  my  batteries  were  low— as  Waxy  launched  into 
an  incomprehensible  lecture  on  his  own  work:  "... 
breadstick  model  . . . not  unscalar  . . . identical  with 
the  particles  they  replaced.  . . . Quirks,  digamma 
mesons,  the  lumps  on  nutria  . . . sex,  said  the 
traveling  . . . scampi  divided  against  itself  cannot 
. . . Huron!  Yet  when  . . . neoclassical  angle,  guys 
and  gals,  so  . . . Weeons,  by  contrast,  do  not  ...  go 
gently  . . . gluons  may  predominate,  but  strapons 
lend  elegance  . . . the  rest  is  history,  into  that  . . . 
goodnight. 

"Well,  Wee  himself  was  a Nobel  winner,  and 
so  it  was  he  who  sent  me  the  enigmatic  telegram, 
'Weep  articles  no  win  absent  lago's  nap.'  I think  it 
was  really  meant  to  read  'Wee  particles  now  in 
absentia  go  snap,'  but  who  knows  for  sure?  These 
Nobelists  always  try  to  squeeze  in  under  ten  words, 
so  they  end  up  with  gibberish.  Any  questions?" 

Someone  asked  about  the  Manhattan  Project. 

"Doomed  from  the  styt.  Couldn't  have  been 
worse  if  they'd  actually  held  it  in  Manhattan — or 
spent  their  time  on  a new  manhattan  recipe.  Of 
course,  with  America  at  war,  they  couldn't  admit 
their  failure.  So  instead  of  backing  down,  they 
claimed  to  be  working  next  on  a bigger  and  better 
project,  a superbomb.  Then  of  course  Russia  had  to 
make  the  same  claims,  and  by  then  the  lie  was  so 
big  everybody  had  to  keep  it  going. 

"Everyone  went  right  on  supposedly  testing 
bombs  equivalent  to  megatons  of  TNT.  If  you  check 
the  records  carefully,  however,  you'll  see  there  are 
megatons  of  real  TNT  not  accounted  for!" 

I spoke  up.  "Wait  just  a minute.  Are  you 
trying  to  tell  us  it's  all  a fraud?  That  there  are  no 
atomic  bombs?  No  hydrogen  bombs?  No  tactical 
nukes,  nothing?" 

"Correct.  You  see,  there  can't  be  repeated 
tests  of  a genuine  nuclear  weapons,  because  the  first 
time  you  set  it  off,  an  antichain  antireaction  would 
ripple  through  all  the  absent  antiparticles  of  the 
universe,  blowing  everything  to  kingdom  come." 

"Yeah?  Then  what  about  nuclear  power 
stations?" 

"I  was  just  getting  to  those,"  he  said.  "All 
part  of  the  world  fraud.  Those  who  maintain  it 
argue  that  we've  had  three-quarters  of  a century  of 
relatively  peaceful  times  just  because  everybody  was 
afraid  of  'the  Bomb.'  But  it's  incredibly  complicated. 
Nuclear  power  stations  all  have  to  be  built  right  on 
top  of  coal  seams  or  near  oil  pipelines.  The  military 
has  to  pretend  to  stockpile  all  those  imaginary 
weapons.  Notice  that  nobody  ever  gets  to  see  these 
stockpiles?  No — and  I'll  tell  you  why.  Soon  as 
anybody  gets  a peek  at  a real  hundred-megaton 
bomb,  the  game  is  up.  Because  there  it  is,  one  huge 


ball  of  TNT,  over  three  hundred  meters  in  diameter, 
weighing  a hundred  million  tons— and  of  course  no 
missile  or  plane  ever  made  could  deliver  it  as  a 
weapon." 

One  of  the  other  pirates  spoke  up.  "Kind  of 
hard  to  believe  all  this.  Waxy.  I mean,  why  should 
all  the  scientists  and  all  the  governments  of  the 
world  be  lying  to  us  and  you  alone  telling  the  truth? 
You  got  any  proof?" 

Waxy  nodded  and  held  out  his  fist.  "The 
proof  is  right  here.  This,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  an 
absent  semi-antinullitronio."  He  opened  his  fist  to 
reveal  a red  wooden  ball  about  an  inch  in  diameter. 
"I  know  it  may  seem  a trifle  big  for  a subatomic 
particle,  but  that  can't  be  helped.  The  fact  is,  this 
little  mother  is  going  with  us  to  the  sun.  And  when 
it  hits  the  sun,  pow!  The  whole  universe  is  going  to 
burn  up  with  us!" 

The  ball  fell  from  his  sweaty  grasp  and  rolled 
away  under  some  lockers.  While  Waxy  got  down  to 
look  for  it,  the  rest  of  us  avoided  each  other's  gaze. 
The  least  giggle  could  set  off  a chain  reaction. 

I couldn't  help  saying,  "Some  proof.  Listen, 
Waxy,  this  ship  is  nuclear-powered.  It's  not  powered 
by  enormous  dynamite  explosions  or  by  some 
nearby  coal  mine,  dammit.  We're  in  space,  headed 
for  the  sun.  Even  you  have  to  admit  that.  Your  little 
red  bead  can't  blow  up  the  suri  otherwise,  right?" 

But  when  he  brought  tlie  bead  out,  it  was 
green.  "I  guess  you're  right.  Rusty,"  he  said.  "I  guess 
I'm  in  the  middle  of  some  fundcimental  paradox  here 
that — " 

So  saying,  he  and  the  bead  popped  out  of 
existence. 

One  of  the  other  pirates  said,  "I  guess  Waxy 
was  wrong  about  the  fundamental  nature  of — oops!" 
He  too  vanished. 

Another  pirate  said,  "We  all  have  to  be 
careful  not  to  think  too  much  about  this,  don't  you 
see?  Because  either  the  universe  contains  Waxy  and 
all  his  funny  particles  and  ideas  and  no  nukes,  or 
else  it  contains  the  absence  of  a green  wooden — " 

One  by  one  they  succumbed,  unable  to  resist 
the  temptation  to  analyze.  The  penultimate  pirate 
almost  had  the  answer  as  she  vanished,  saying:  "It's 
almost  a trap  for  critics,  each  critical  analysis 
becoming  part  of  the  analyzed  story — aha!" 

The  last  pirate,  a tall,  stooped  man  with  a 
lugubrious  expression  accentuated  by  the  heavy 
moustache  that  he  kept  dyed  gi'een,  was  Vilo  Jord, 
former  attache  to  the  Chilean  Embassy  on  Mars  until 
recalled  for  various  offenses,  thi;  least  of  which  was 
impersonating  an  orthodontist.  But  why  do  I tell 
you  all  this?  No  doubt  to  put  olf  for  as  long  as  pos- 
sible the  moment  of  his  death;  for  he,  too,  suc- 
cumbed to  fatal  reason. 

"I've  got  to  find  out!"  he  cried,  and,  seizing  a 
fire  axe,  he  attacked  the  hull  of  the  ship  itself.  Since 

(continued  on  page  50) 


42  Twilight  Zone 


Part  One:  Fill  in  the  blank  spaces  with  the  correct  word  or  phrase. 

1.  The  book  opens  with  the  arrival  of  a mysterious 

in  the  remote  and  peaceful  hamlet  of 

2.  The  hero,  , lives  there  in  obscurity,  believing  he  is  a 

humble 

3.  Unknown  to  him,  he  posseses  a magic 

4.  On  a dark  and  stormy  night,  a named  

commands to  prepare  for  a long  

5.  On  their  way  through , the  companions  are  attacked 

by  a giant , but  a mysterious  drives  it  off 

with  a 

6.  In  the  forest  of , a carres  off , 

, and , but escapes. 

7.  In  a climactic  scene,  learns  that  he  is  actually 

8.  Just  as  he  is  about  to , the appears  and 

commands  him  to 

9.  He 

10.  Trapped  by  the , discovers  that  she  has  the 

power  to 

11.  She  chooses  to 

12.  When  the  final  confrontation  comes,  the  wicked  sorcerer  tries 

to , but  the  hero him. 

13.  Unfortunately,  this  brings  about  the of 


Author's  Note:  With  sligh  t modifications,  this 
quiz  is  applicable  to  all  fantasy  novels  written 
in  the  English  language  within  living  memory, 
and  to  all  those  likely  to  be  written  in  the 
forseeable  future. 


ANSWER  ANY  FIFTY  QUESTIONS.  RE/.D  THE 
DIRECTIONS  AND  FOLLOW  THEM  CAREFULLY. 


Part  Two:  In  the  space  at  the  left,  put  T if  the  statement  is 
true,  F if  the  statement  is  false. 

1.  A mysterious  figure  turns  up  in  the  book  at  unexpected 

times. 

2.  Though  eit  first  he  appears  to  be  bad,  this  mysterious 

figure  turns  out  to  be  good. 

3.  Throughout  most  of  the  book,  the  hero  is  unaware  of  the 

importanire  of  his  mission. 

4.  The  book  takes  place  in  a land  where  sex  has  apparently 

never  been  discovered. 

5.  For  much  of  the  book,  the  characters  are  not  really  sure 

exactly  what  is  going  on. 

6.  Neither  is.  the  reader. 

7.  At  a crucial  point,  the  hero  makes  a dupib  mistake  and 

gets  into  a lot  of  trouble. 

8.  At  the  climax  of  the  book,  the  wicked  sorcerer  makes  a 

dumb  mistake  and  gets  into  a lot  of  trouble. 

9.  Everyone  does  a lot  of  walking,  but  nobody  gets  sore  feet. 

10.  The  book  ends  with  no  possibility  of  a sequel. 


Part  Three:  Match  the  correct  name  from  Column  B with  the  brief 
description  in  Column  A. 

Column  A Column  B 

1.  A wicked  sorcerer  A.  Boniface  Goodsoul 

2.  The  hero  B.  Forrest  Bendbow 

3.  The  hero's:  pal  C.  The  Slisshe 

_ 4.  A mysterious  cloaked  D.  Shadowfoot 

figure  E.  Malixanthra 

5.  The  sorcei'er's  stronghold  F.  Grom  Ironthighs 

6.  The  good  wizard  G.  Lorehaven-by- 

7.  A slimy  monster  Goldenmeadow 

8.  A great  warrior  H.  Bel'Amderon 

9.  A friendly  huntsman  I.  Toltoth  Vul-D'zagg 

10.  Home  of  i:he  good  people  J.  The  Hall  of  Howling  Skulls 

11.  The  sorceier's  lady  friend  K.  Bursilot 

12.  The  heroine  L.  Jemmy  Bump 

(continued  on  page  88) 


Illustrqjions  by  Andrew  Shochat 


ic 

GROWN-UPS,  KEEP  OUT! 

arents  behind  the  line,  please.  We've  got  to 
separate  the  adults  from  the  children." 

The  harried  woman  passed  up  and  down  the 
rippling  line  of  children  and  parents.  She  wore  a 
sweat  shirt  with  a picture  of  a smiling  daisy  and  the 
legend  HAVE  A NICE  DAY. 

"We  can't  start  the  Easter  egg  hunt  until  all 
parents  are  behind  the  line,  please." 

Bill  Willoughby,  who  had  not  stepped  over 
the  line,  was  jostled  by  the  retreating  parents  who 
had.  He  craned  his  neck  for  a better  view  of  the  line 
of  children.  Jennifer  Anne,  five  years  old,  turned 
and  waved  to  him,  smiling.  The  green  lawn  of  the 
park  spread  out  before  her,  dotted  with  multi- 
colored eggs,  like  Wonderland.  She  held  a baseball 
cap  in  her  hands  to  hold  the  eggs  she  would  find, 
since  Daddy  had  forgotten  a bag. 

Bill  waved  back  and  called  out,  "Good  luck, 
Jen."  The  siren  of  the  nearby  fire  engine  sounded 
and  the  children  surged  forward,  followed  in  a 
moment  or  two  by  the  adults.  Bill  moved  through 
the  confusion,  stepping  over  the  occasional  trampled 
egg  and  past  the  occasional  crying  child  too  slow  or 
too  timid  to  have  found  anything.  These  orphans 
were  claimed  by  various  parents  with  various  kinds 
of  comfort.  "That's  all  right,  you'll  get  some  next 
year."  "Well,  don't  let  them  push  you  out  of  the 
way.  You  push  them  out  of  the  way." 


Jim  Cort 

Jennie  stood  on  the  path  like  a survivor,  hold- 
ing the  laden  baseball  cap. 

"Did  you  get  any  eggs,  Jen?" 

"Uh-huh.  I got  seven.  I got  a numbered  one 
too,  see?  Number  forty-eight." 

"Good  girl.  That  means  you  win  a prize.  Let's 
go  see  what  it  is." 

The  prize  was  a pair  of  sunglasses.  Riding 
home  in  the  car,  Jennie  made  the  world  change 
colors  by  flipping  them  up  and  down  her  face. 

Bill  said,  "Did  you  have  a good  time,  Jen?" 

"Uh-huh." 

"The  eggs  are  all  pretty  colors,  aren't  they?" 

"Uh-huh.  In  Pookaland  the  eggs  are  always 
pretty  colors  like  this." 

Bill  smiled.  "Really?  Dc  the  pookas  color 

them?" 

"No,"  said  Jennie,  "the  chickens  make  them 
that  way.  Red  chickens  make  red  eggs,  and  purple 
chickens  make  purple  eggs,  and  green  chickens  make 
green  eggs  ..." 

"What  about  stripes  and  polka-dots?" 

"And  stripes  and  polka-dots,  too." 

"Do  the  pookas  call  them  'pooka-dots'?" 

"Daddy,  you're  silly." 

Pookas  lived  in  Pookaland,  on  Pooka  Street. 
Every  night  when  Jennie  went  ta  sleep,  they  enter- 


46  Twilight  Zone 


tained  her  there.  Every  morning  when  she  awoke, 
she  would  be  full  of  stories  of  the  games  she  had 
played  and  parties  she  had  been  to  and  sights  she 
had  seen.  Every  day  Bill  learned  something  new 
about  the  pookas.  They  were  in  her  pictures  and  in 
her  songs,  and  he  loved  to  hear  about  them. 

"Do  the  pookas  eat  the  eggs?"  he  asked  her. 
"No,  they  hcing  them  on  their  Chfis'mus  tree. 
Pookas  eat  Chinese  food.  That's  their  favorite  food." 

"I  wish  I coeld  meet  a pooka,"  said  Bill.  "I've 
never  seen  one." 

"You  can't  see  them  'cause  they're  'vis'ble." 
"How  can  you  see  them  if  they're  invisible?" 
"You  could  see  them  if  you're  little,"  she  said. 

Bill  took  another  plate  from  the  rack  and 
wiped  it  dry.  "That's  a real  word,  you  know 
— 'pooka.'  It's  some  kind  of  magic  spirit, 
like  Harvey." 

His  wife  Dorothy  set  a dripping  saucepan  on 
the  rack.  "Harvey  who?"  she  said. 

"You  know,  Harvey — that  movie  with  Jimmy 
Stewart.  The  six-foot  rabbit.  Maybe  that's  where  she 
got  it  from." 

"She's  never  seen  that  movie.  The  only  six- 
foot  rabbit  she's  ever  seen  was  handing  out  jelly 
beans  at  the  florist's.  She's  just  got  an  active 
imagination,  that's  all." 

"Yes,"  said  Bill.  "It  was  weird  watching  her  in 
the  park  today.  The  place  was  mobbed.  It  was  like  a 
training  camp  for  cidulthood,  for  all  the  other  mobs 
she'll  be  a part  of.  I could  see  her  trooping  off  to 
school,  trooping  off  to  work;  chasing  after  money 
instead  of  colored  eggs." 

"Feeling  old  today.  Grandpa?" 

"No,  it's  not  that,"  he  said,  stacking  a dish  in 
the  cabinet.  "I  passied  by  two  boys  on  bicycles.  They 
couldn't  have  been  more  than  ten.  One  of  them  said, 
'Let's  pretend  we're  international  terrorists,  and  these 
eggs  are  really  bombs.'  What  kind  of  game  is  that? 
That's  too  grown-up  for  me.  I don't  want  Jen  to 
grow  up  that  fast.' 

Dorothy  pulled  her  hands  suddenly  from  the 
sink.  "Damn!  There  goes  the  hot  water  again!  That 
thing's  got  to  be  looked  at." 

Bill  said,  "I'll  call  the  plumber  on  Monday." 
Jennie  came  skipping  into  the  kitchen,  her 
sunglasses  still  perched  on  her  head,  and  a sheaf  of 
papers  in  her  hand.  "Who  wants  to  look  at  my 
pictures?" 

Masses  of  reds,  greens,  purples  and  pinks; 
something  that  might  have  been  an  airplane  and 
might  have  been  a Boston  cream  pie;  a large  round 
head  on  two  short  legs,  in  green. 

"This  one's  nice,  Jen,"  said  Bill,  "is  this  a 
pooka?" 

She  studied  the  picture  and  said,  "No,  that's  a 
smiley  face."  She  rummaged  through  the  stack  and 
found  another  large  round  head  on  two  short  legs. 


in  purple.  "That's  a pooka." 

"Oh,  I see." 

"Come  on,  young  lady,"  said  Dorothy,  "time 
for  your  bath."  She  scooped  Jennie  up  and  headed 
toward  the  bathroom.  "And  after  that,  off  to  bed. 
What  story  do  you  want  tonight?" 

"Horton  and  the  Whos." 

Bill  turned  back  to  the  picture  of  the  pooka. 
Every  one  she  drew  looked  like  a large  round  head 
on  two  short  legs. 

He  woke  up  suddenly,  as  if  someone  had 
called  his  name  in  a dream.  The  clock  by 
the  bed  read  twenty  past  two.  He  got  out  of 
bed  and  padded  toward  the  bathroom.  In  the  hall  he 
saw  a light  under  Jennie's  door.  What's  she  doing 
with  the  light  on?  he  thought.  He  went  down  the 
hallway  and  opened  the  door. 

The  room  was  dark.  He  could  just  make  out 
Jennie  lying  on  the  bed,  the  covers  in  disarray  about 
her  ankles,  as  they  were  every  night.  It  must  have 
been  the  moon  shining  in  the  window.  He  tucked 
her  in  again,  tiptoed  out,  and  closed  the  door. 

In  the  bathroom  he  drank  a glass  of  water 
and  gazed  out  the  window  at  the  night  sky.  There 
was  no  moon. 

"Hi,  honey,  how  was  your  day?'-' 

"All  right,"  said  Bill.  "Where's  Jen?" 

"She's  over  playing  with  Louise.  I'm  going  to 
pick  her  up  in  a while." 

Bill  hung  up  his  coat  and  took  off  his  tie. 
"Did  the  plumber  come?" 

"Yes." 

"And?" 

"We  need  a new  water  heater." 

"Wonderful."  He  sank  wearily  into  an  arm- 
chair and  ran  his  hand  through  his  hair.  "They  fired 
Ed  McKinnon  today,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  Bill,  no." 

"Cleary  just  walked  into  his  office  and  said, 
'Ed,  you're  fired.'  Just  like  that.  And  a memo  came 
around  saying  that  salary  increases  will  be  limited  to 
six  percent  again  this  year." 

All  the  color  seemed  to  drain  out  of  his  voice. 
He  said,  "Dottie,  I'm  so  tired.  There's  so  much  going 
on.  I just  want  to  get  away." 

"Maybe  we  could  take  a week,  go  to  the 
mountains." 

"No,  not  a vacation.  That's  not  what  I mean. 
Everything's  so  complicated — the  job,  the  money, 
the  house.  I look  around  at  the  people  I know, 
people  I work  with.  I don't  like  most  of  them.  I 
don't  like  what  I see  in  their  eyes.  I want  to  be  a kid 
again,  just  for  an  hour  or  so.  Just  to  get  away. 

"I  get  so  envious  of  Jen  sometimes.  I want  to 
tell  her,  'Hold  onto  this;  don't  let  it  slip  away.  Don't 
let  yourself  wake  up  one  day  and  find  out  you  can't 
find  the  way  back  to  Pookaland.' 

.a 

- ‘4 


Twilight  Zone  47 


"She  wouldn't  understand."  ^ 

"I  know.  She'll  be  in  a mad  hurry  to  grow 
up,  just  like  everybody  else.  People  don't  really  lose 
their  childhood;  they  throw  it  away  because  they 
think  they're  getting  something  so  much  better." 

She  sat  on  arm  of  the  chair  and  kissed  him. 
"You're  just  having  a little  trouble  coping  today.  It 
happens  to  everyone.  You'll  get  over  it.  Why  don't 
you  lie  down  and  relax  while  I go  pick  up  Jen." 

"Okay." 

She  paused  when  she  was  almost  out  the  door 
and  started  to  say  something. 

"What?"  he  said. 

"Never  mind." 

"What  is  it?" 

"Well,  I kind  of  hate  to  bring  this  up  right 
now,  but  April  fifteenth  is  only  nine  days  away." 

The  dining  room  table  was  littered  with 
1040's,  W-2's,  tax  tables,  check  stubs,  re- 
ceipts, and  statements.  Bill  stared  at  them  as 
if  their  arrangement  on  the  table  was  somehow 
significant.  Perhaps  if  he  stacked  them  in  just  the 
, -right  way  the  six  hundred  dollars  they  owed  would 
magically  disappear.  Why  not?  Nothing  else  seemed 
to  work. 

Something  slowly  appeared  from  beneath  the 
far  edge  of  the  table.  It  was  a paper  bag  festooned 
with  scraps  of  construction  paper  and  pictures  from 
magazines.  The  bag  rose  further  and  soon  a small 
face  appeared  beneath  it. 

"Hello  again,  hello,"  it  said.  "Do  you  like  my 

hat?" 

"Yes,  I do." 

"Goodbye  again,  goodbye,"  and  face  and  bag 
sank  from  view. 


"Is  that  how  they  say  hello  in  Pookaland?" 

"Yup,  that's  how  they  do  it." 

"Jennifer,"  said  her  mother,  "don't  bother 
Daddy  now.  Come  on,  it's  time  for  bed." 

"But  I'm  not  sleepy." 

"Jennifer  Anne." 

"I'll  take  her  up,"  said  Bill.  "I  can  use  a 
break.  Come  on,  Jen,  I'll  read  you  something  from 
the  cat  book." 

"'I  have  a Gumbie  cat  in  mind,  her  name  is 
Jennyanydots  . . .'  How'd  you  like  me  to  call  you 
Jennyanydots?" 

"Well,  that's  what  the  pookas  call  me." 

"Do  they?  Are  you  going  there  tonight?" 

"Uh-huh,  I go  there  every  night." 

He  smoothed  the  covers  over  her  and  stroked 
her  hair.  "May  I come,  too?" 

"Oh,  Daddy,  you're  a grown-up." 

"It  wouldn't  have  to  be  as  a grown-up. 
Couldn't  I just  come  as  your  friend?  We  could  play 
and  have  fun,  and  you  could  show  me  all  around 
Pookaland." 

Jennie  rocked  her  head  back  and  forth  on  the 
pillow  considering  this.  "Okay,'  she  said,  "you  can 
come." 

"Okay,  honejy  I'll  see  ycu  there." 

"Finish  the  story!" 

"Whoops!  Right  you  are.  'I  have  a Gumbie 
cat  in  mind,  her  name  is  Jennyanydots  . . .'" 

The  alarm  on  his  watch  woke  him  at  two- 
thirty.  He  shut  if  off  quickly  and  waited,  breathless, 
to  see  if  his  wife  would  stir.  There  was  no  sound  ex- 
cept her  quiet  breathing.  He  eased  himself  silently 
from  under  the  covers  and  crept  out  into  the  hall. 

He  walked  slowly  toward  Jennie's  door,  star- 
ing at  the  shaft  of  light  beneath  it.  Stay,  please  stay. 
His  hand  reached  the  knob  and,  shutting  his  eyes,  he 
twisted  and  pushed. 

Then  he  opened  his  eyes. 

Beyond  the  doorway  was  a green  and  sunlit 
meadow.  Here  and  there,  blue  and  purple  chickens 
wandered  on  the  grass.  In  the  distance  stood  a house 
shaped  like  a giant  teacup.  A figure  emerged  and 
started  toward  him.  It  was  a large  round  head  on 
two  short  legs,  and  it  was  skipping  across  the  grass 
in  just  the- way  he  would  expect  something  shaped 
like  that  to  move.  As  the  figure  drew  nearer  he  saw 
that  it  wore  on  its  head  something  that  looked  like  a 
cross  between  a set  of  bagpipes  and  a feather  duster. 
And  then  it  was  in  front  of  him. 

"Hello  again,  hello,"  it  said  in  a musical 
voice.  "Do  you  like  my  hat?" 

Bill  could  only  nod. 

"Jennyanydots  is  eating  supper.  Would  you 
like  to  join  us?" 

It  took  him  a long  time  to  get  the  words  out. 

"L  love  Chinese  food,"  he'  said  at  last.  iS 


48  Twilight  Zone 


Illustration  by  Randy  Jones 


MEET  DEATH  FACE  TO  FACE— HE'S  IN  THE  SEAT  ACROSS  THE  AISLE. 


n your  worst  n ghtmares,  you  never  expected  to 
find  yourself  in  a situation  like  this. 

It's  too  late,  of  course.  Now  there's  no  one  in  the 
subway  car  but  him  and  you.  And  the  train  won't 
make  another  stop  until  the  end  of  the  line. 

You  don't  know  which  way  to  turn  your 
gaze.  Certainly  not  toward  him— you  don't  want  to 
let  him  catch  you  looking.  But  you're  safe  for  the 
moment,  because  he's  raised  his  New  York  Post 
again  to  continue  reading,  and  his  face  is  almost 
completely  hidden.  Now  you  can  look  . . . 

And  this  time  you  see  it:  that  same  face,  his 
face,  revealed  in  nearly  total  detail  in  the  middle  of 
the  front  page  beneath  a screaming  headline: 

IS  THIS  THE  SUBWAY  SLASHER? 

POLICE  SEEK  SUSPECT 

A smaller  headline  adds.  Five  Attacks  So  Far. 

From  this  far  away  you  can  see  that  the 
grainy  photograph  held  slightly  crumpled  in  the 
stranger's  coarse  hands  is  a match  to  the  face  you've 
noticed  a moment  before.  Stringy  black  hair.  Mal- 
formed smile.  Two  small  but  distinct  scars  on  the 
right  cheek.  Wildly  staring  eyes. 


It  is  the  vacant,  soulless  face  of  someone 
more  at  home  in  a prison  or  an  institution. 

A mental  institution. 

You  shudder,  even  though  you're  not  sure  of 
the  details  of  the  crimes,  because  you  usually  avoid 
reading  about  such  repulsive  activities.  You're  aware 
that  these  things  go  on  in  the  world,  but  you  don't 
share  the  public's  morbid  fascination  with  them;  you 
only  know  what's  already  been  forced  upon  you 
when  you  passed  a row  of  tv's  in  an  appliance  store 
window  and  later  heard  a partial  news  report  as  the 
dial  was  turned  on  a nearby  ghetto  blaster. 

Five  Attacks  So  Far. 

You've  always  been  cautious,  especially  when 
traveling  by  yourself.  Like  everyone  else,  you 
pretend  to  know  how  to  take  care  of  yourself,  no 
matter  where  you  are  or  who  you're  with. 

But  you  never  thought  you'd  find  yourself 
awake  in  a nightmare.  Nervously  you  squeeze  your 
own  tattered  late  edition  as  the  graffiti-splattered 
train  twists  around  a corner,  momentarily  sending 
the  car  into  blackness.  You  never  imagined  you'd 
find  yourself  alone  with  someone  very  near — sitting 
practically  across  from  you — someone  who  looks 


Twilight  Zone  49 


EnOOFfHElinE 


exactly  like  the  person  identified  in  the  newspaper  as 
a hunted  maniac. 

Hoping  he  won't  notice,  you  slowly  turn  your 
head  from  side  to  side,  searching  for  a police  officer. 
If  only  one  would  suddenly  appear!  All  that  comes 
to  mind  is  the  old  joke:  "There's  never  a cop  around 
when  you  need  one."  How  could  anyone  possibly 
believe  that  was  funny? 

No  one's  laughing  now.  No  one's  even 
smiling. 

Except  for  the  man  sitting  across  from  you  in 
the  speeding,  swaying  car. 

The  roar  of  the  train  as  it  hurtles  down  the 
tracks  has  never  seemed  so  loud  before,  yet  you'd 
swear  that,  above  it,'  you  can  hear  the  pounding  of 
your  heart. 

Blackness  again.  When  the  lights  flicker  back 
on,  it  seems  as  if  he's  moved  a little  closer.  No 
longer  hidden  beneath  his  newspaper,  one  hand  has 
dropped  to  his  side  and  is  searching  in  the  pocket  of 
his  worn,  shiny  coat. 

Searching  for  what?  What  is  there  to  hide? 

You  can  almost  sense  the  pupils  in  your  eyes 
dilating  as  you  wonder  whetjjer  to  remain  in  place 
and  wait  for  help  to  arrive  or  make  a break  for  it. 
From  where  you're  positioned,  it's  impossible  to  see 
if  there's  anyone  else  in  the  adjoining  cars.  Equally 
impossible  to  tell  if  you  could  make  it  to  the  end  of 
this  car  before  being  struck  down,  before  you're  hor- 
ribly butchered  by  the  knife  hidden  in  his  pocket 
and  left  like  so  many  other  scraps  of  refuse  on  the 
stained  and  sticky  floor. 

This  is  the  longest  ridt  you've  ever  taken  on 
this  line.  If  only  you  had  jv.st  been  left  alone, 

ABSENT  FRIENDS 

(continued  from  page  42) 

the  hull  was  made  mainly  of  thin  canvas  stretched 
over  a wooden  frame  and  painted,  he  had  no  trouble 
ripping  a large  hole  in  it.  Through  the  hole  at  once 
rushed  the  ship's  air,  the  fireaxe,  and  Vilo  Jord. 

1 held  on  to  a convenient  stanchion  and 
peered  out  into  black  space.  Against  the  gleaming 
dust  of  stars,  I could  make  out  his  sunlit  figure 
spinning,  spinning.  And  as  it  blinked  out  of  sight, 
the  space  scene  was  instantly  replaced  by  a peaceful 
earthly  landscape.  I saw  a hillside,  clouds  above 
trees,  and  in  the  middle  of  it  all  a large  coal  mine. 
Conveyors  were  carrying  a continuous  stream  of 
coal  to  the  ship's  engines.  I never  asked  why. 

I alone  am  left  to  tell  this  tale. 

"W  don't  want  to  be  smug,"  the  robot  finished, 
■ "but  I think  the  reason  I did  survive  is 

because  I never  questioned  or  analyzed  any- 
thing— oops!"  With  a terrible  clang,  it  was  dragged 
out  of  our  universe. 

One  of  the  others  said,  "Wait  a minute,  was 
this  a coffin  ship,  or  what?  I mean,  isn't  it  just 


allowed  to  go  your  way  in  peace  and  quiet.  Isn't 
anyone  safe  anymore?  you  wonder  while  checking 
again  to  see  if  someone  might  be  rushing  to  your 
aid.  You  try  not  to  look  at  the  madman  across  the 
aisle,  though  you  know  he's  novr  smiling  his  twisted 
smile  directly  at  you. 

And  still  moving  closer  each  time  the  car  goes 

dark. 

You  can  feel  the  hair  sticking  to  the  back  of 
your  neck,  the  hot  wetness  in  your  palms.  Your  lips 
are  trembling;  you  have  to  bite  into  them  with  your 
teeth  to  hold  them  under  control.  Finally  you  realize 
you  have  no  choice — when  suddenly  the  lights  go 
out  again. 

You  leap  across  the  car,  your  right  hand 
clutching  your  hidden  surgical  knife.  Before  the 
maniac  can  make  his  move,  you  slide  the  sharp 
blade  back  and  forth  across  his  throat.  And  to  be 
doubly  sure,  you  plunge  the  crimson-dyed  blade  into 
his  eyes  so  he'll  never  look  at  you  that  way  again. 

The  body  falls  heavily  to  the  floor  as  the 
train  shrieks  to  a stop.  The  filthy  leer  lingers  on  his 
face,  but  at  least  the  hands  and  mouth  are  never 
going  to  touch  you. 

Waiting  for  the  doors  to  open,  you  conceal 
the  knife  beneath  your  long  coat  and  hurriedly  wipe 
your  dripping  hands  with  the  clean  washcloth  you 
never  forget  to  carry.  That's  wh(;n  you  notice  it— a 
face  turning  to  meet  your  own  in  the  small  glass 
window  in  front  of  you.  You're  forced  to  look  away, 
for  once  again  you  recognize  the  slasher;  the  stringy 
black  hair,  the  two  small  scars,  the  smile. 

You  thank  the  door  as  it  hisses  open  to  let 
you  out.  IS 


possible  that  the  owners  tried  to  scuttle  her  in  space 
to  collect  the  insurance?" 

Wham. 

"That's  not  it,"  said  anotlier.  "Remember  he 
found  all  that  stationery  marked  S.S.  Dolly  Edison’! 
Well,  wasn't  the  Dolly  Edison  that  mysterious  space 
freighter  they  found  drifting  in  sjDace,  not  a soul  on 
board  but  with  the  dinner  still  on  the  table?  Well 
then — " Wham. 

"I've  only  got  one  question:  how  about  those 
hammocks?  People  lying  around  in  hammocks  in  a 
free-falling  space  ship?  Unless  maybe  it  was  on  Earth 
all  along—".  Zip. 

"Must  be  all  an  allegory  about  modern 
anomie  or — " Pop. 

"Will  everybody  please  just  stop  analyzing 
here?  Because  we  too  are  inside  it,  and  unless  we're 
very,  very  careful,  we  might  all~ow!" 

One  by  one  they  go,  until  1 am  left  alone  by 
the  fake  fire.  But  my  glass  is  empty  and  my  smile 
feels  fixed,  and  now  that  I think  of  it,  is  that  fire 
fake?  It  blazes  like  the  sun,  which  we  now  know  is 
built  near  a very  large,  efficient  coal  mine,  right?  So 
if  you'll  all  raise  your  glasses,  the  toast  is — m 


50  Twilight  Zone 


IN  THE  TERRIFYING  WORLD 
OFTHE 


and 


Chaos,  cannibalism,  the  rise  of 
criminal  despots — thes»!  are  some  of 
the  things  we  can  expect  in  the  very 
near  future,  if  Hollywood's  crystal  ball 
is  accurate  (which,  thank  God,  it 
almost  never  is).  Perhaps  filmmakers 
are  by  nature  a pessimistic  breed  with 
a touch  of  Cassandra  in  their  genes,  or 
maybe  it's  just  that  trouble  and  strife 
mean  big  box-office;  whatever  the 
reason,  the  future  societies  depicted  on 
screen  have  been  decidedly  dystopian, 
ranging  from  outright  .inarchies  to  the 
most  repressive  of  police  states.  In 
fact,  the  closest  things  to  utopias 
you'll  find  on  these  pages  are  of 
relatively  ancient  vintage  and  appear, 
today,  more  than  a little  fascistic:  Fritz 
Lang's  Metropolis  (1927),  in  which 
slavelike  masses  revolt  against,  but  are 
ultimately  reconciled  with,  their  city's 
autocratic  ruler,  and  Things  to  Come 
(1936),  adapted  by  H.G.  Wells  from 
his  novel,  which,  for  all  Wells's  own 
socialism,  sees  the  salvation  of 
mankind  circa  2036  as  a benign 
technocracy,  a dictatorship  of  scientists 
and  visionaries. 

The  messages  of  more  recent  films 
are  grimmer.  Thanks  to  a burgeoning 
population,  resources  will  become 
increasingly  scarce,  leading  to  social 
disorder,  the  breakdown  of 
government,  random  violence,  and  a 
war  of  the  young  against  the  old.  The 
American  city  will  become  a jungle  or, 
as  in  Soylent  Green  (1973),  something 
resembling  the  Bowery.  Sox/lent's 
major  source  of  protein  is  Homo 
sapiens;  the  elderly  are  urged  to  make 
room  (and,  it  turns  out,  food)  for 
others  in  euthanasia  centers.  Wild  in 
the  Streets  (1968),  in  which  youths  of 


IT'S  ORWELL'S  YEAR, 

AND  (SURPRISE!)  WE'RE  STILL  SMILING. 

BUT  IF  HOLLYWOOD'S  TO  BE  BELIEVED,  THE  WORST 
IS  YET  TO  COME. 


fourteen  get  the  vote,  puts  a rock  star 
in  the  White  House  and  people  over 
thirty-five  in  concentration  camps. 
Logan's  Run  (1976)  goes  even  further, 
depicting  a subterranean  world  in 
which  everyone  over  thirty  is  tracked 
down  and  killed.  The  pollution-choked 
society  in  Z.P.G.  (1972)  keeps  the 
population  down  by  outlawing  excess 
babies,  while  citizens  of  the  twenty- 
first-century  Los  Angeles  in  Blade 
Runner  (1982)  are  encouraged  to 
emgirate  off-world. 

Blade  Runner's  L.A.  is  a noisy, 
neon-lit  ethnic  hodgepodge  reminiscent 
of  Baghdad  or  Times  Square.  The 
punkish  London  of  A Clockwork 
Orange  (1971)  is  terrorized  by  youth 
gangs  spouting  jargon  based  partly  on 
Russian.  In  Escape  from  New  York 
(1981)  the  Big  Apple  has  been  turned 
into  a vast  penitentiary  ruled  by  a 
criminal  overlord,  while  in  The  Road 
Warrior  (1982)  outlaw  gangs  control 
the  whole  Australian  Outback.  Oil  is 
the  scarce  commodity  here;  we  never 
learn  where  the  food  comes  from. 

Entertainment  of  various  sorts  will 
become  the  opiate  of  the  masses.  The 
populace  in  Fahrenheit  451  (1967)  is 
mesmerized  by  wall-to-wall  tv,  while 
books  are  burned  as  subversive. 
Rollerball  (1975)  envisions  a nation 
hooked  on  a brutal  form  of  futuristic 
hockey,  while  the  game  in  Punishment 
Park  (1970)  is  even  nastier,  the 


hunting  of  political  dissidents  in 
survival  parks. 

If  the  future  isn't  chaotic,  itll  be 
bleak  and  distinctly  high-tech.  A 
computer  is  top  man  in  Alphaville 
(196^,  and  its  particular  bete  noir 
is  — what  else?— human  love.  Love  is 
also  forbidden  in  the  sterile 
underground  society  of  THX-1138 
(1971).  U.S.  and  Soviet 
supercomputers  team  up  to  rule  the 
world  in  Colossus:  The  Forbin  Project 
(1970),  seizing  power  with  the 
decisiveness  of  the  computer  in  the 
famous  Asimov  short-short;  when 
asked,  "Is  there  a God?",  it  replied 
without  hesitation,  "Now  there  is." 

Curiously,  among  all  these  visions 
of  violence  and  despair,  the  grimmest 
one  of  all  remains  that  of  1984,  even 
in  the  unsuccessful  1956  film  version 
directed  by  Michael  Anderson  and 
starring  Edmond  O'Brien,  Jan  Sterling, 
and  Michael  Redgrave.  Here  history  is 
rewritten  daily,  language  is  debased, 
the  intellect  is  stultified,  and  logic 
itself  bends  to  the  whim  of  the  state. 

It  is  a future  without  a future: 
henceforth  mcuikind's  fate  will  be  "a 
boot  stamping  on  a human  face  — 
forever."  It  is  this  utter  hopelessness, 
this  denial  of  the  possiblity  of  change, 
that  makes  1984's  prophecy  the  hardest 
to  dismiss,  even  3&  we  live  through  the 
year  itself. 

— TK 


Twilight  Zone  51 


Richard  Jordan  and 
Jenny  Agutter, 
Logan's  Run 
(1976) 


Woody  Allen, 
Sleeper  (1973) 


Oliver  Reed  and 
Geraldine  Chaplin 
Z.RG.  (1972) 


Raymond  Massey. 
Things  to  Come 
(1936)  I 


Kurt  Russell  (left). 
Escape  from  New  York 
(1981) 


Colossus: 

The  Forbin  Project 
(1970) 


Jan  Sterling  and 
Edmond  O’Brien, 
1984  (1956) 


The  Road  Warrior 
(1982) 


W r i 

m 

Joanna  Cassidy, 
Blade  Runner  (1982) 


James  Caan, 
Rollerball  (1975) 


Maggie  McOmie 
and  Robert  Duvall, 
THX  7 738(1971) 


Charlton  Heston, 
Soylent  Green 
(1973) 


KepnnTGd  Trom  Creep  fo  Death  (West  Kingstoa  Rl;  DooaW  M.  Grant>-  © 1981  by  Joseph  Payne  Brennaa 


TiolV s 


otaJ^TALIXY 


Poems  by  Joseph  Payne  Brennan 
Photographs  by  Arthur  Paxton 


m 


A PORTFOLIO  OF 
POEMS,  TENDER,  BLEAK, 
AND  DOOM-HAUNTED, 
FROM  BRENNAN'S  NEW 
OOLLEOTION,  CREEP 
TO  DEATH— AND 
THE  PHOTOGRAPHIC 
IMAGES  THEY  INSPIRED, 

Dust  ’ ^ 

The  dust  in  this  deserted  room, 
disturbed, 

swirls  in  a ray  of  random  sun, 

hangs,  settles, 

more  silent  than  death. 

This  cryptic  dust,  I tell  myself, 

came  froin  the  ends  of  the  universe 

a billion  years  ago, 

through  inconceivable  black  voids, 

through  immensities  of  time 

we  speak  about  but  never  comprehend. 

Down  the  long  centuries  of  light 
it  glided  toward  this  room. 

Now  it  lies  quietly,  gilded  by  sun. 

In  this  one  moment  of  peace 
it  bears  the  richness  of  diamonds, 
every  mote  precise  as  memory, 

I close  the  door  quietly 

on  the  whole  past  of  the  universe 

waiting  to  be  bom  again. 

Summation 

Down  all  my  dusty  days 
I heard  no  paean  of  praise; 

I heard,  instead,  the  bray 
of  asses  in  my  way. 

I worked  till  nerve  and  brain 
were  cinders  seared  with  pain. 

The  laurels  that  I knew 

were  thin  and  parched  — and  few. 


Twilight  Zone  55 


56  Twilight  Zone 


“i 


WM 


ms; 


Beyond  tlic  Night 


High  in  n>y  house  of  frost, 
above  thi;  barren  field, 

I watched  the  icy  night 
nail  down  his  glittering  shield 


Winter  owls  arrived 
against  a starry  frieze 
and  sailed  on  muffled  wings 
past  leafliiss  silver  trees. 


Cliffs  of  wild  conjecture 
loomed  beyond  the  night; 

I sensed  them  in  the  stillness 
and  shuddered  at  their  height! 


From  cold  and  secret  places 
I heard  a bobcat  cry, 
and  then  the  earth,  a magnet, 
drew  silence  from  the  sky. 


IVIy  Nineteenth  Nightmare 

i;n  thy  nineteenth  nightmare 
1,  merged  on  a frosty  street; 
i he  houses  were  made  of  stone, 
trees  dropped  leaves  like  flints. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  street 
i^eone  motioned  for  me  to  come. 
Was  it  my  First  Love  returned  at  last? 

1 hurried  down  those  squares  of  ice, 
mile  after  mile  I walked  or  ran. 

The  street  stretched  on  to  starry  fields, 
to  freezing  woods  and  empty  wastes. 

1 gasped  your  name,  but  gulfs  of  night 
whirled  away  all  sound,  all  sight. 


When  Cedar  Woods 

When  cedar  woods  are  filled  with  snow, 
the  alder  swamp  is  a magic  place, 
muffled  and  shining,  hung  with  lace^ 

A stand  of  hemlocks,  cold  and  de^^ 
holds  all  of  silence  in  its  keep. 

A white  owl  in  a tamarack  tree 
fixes  arctic  eyes  on  me.  * 

Work  stands  waiting;  letters  lie. 

But  I must  leave  my  desk  jmd  go 
when  cedar  woods  fill  up  with  snow. 


Twilight  Zone  57 


Hell:  A Variation 


Grottos  of  Horror 


Cold  granite  hills  that  held  a dearth  of  color 

filled  the  whole  horizon  like  a wall; 

slate  earth  shaped  no  shadows  from  that  sky. 

I thought  of  Hell:  instead  of  driving  flames, 
and  smoke,  and  scarlet  devils  dancing, 
and  endless  trek  up  grey  and  frozen  hills. 

On  every  side,  forever  and  forever, 
bare  stony  slopes  and  skies  opaque, 
heart  without  hope,  unable  to  stop,  unable  to  break. 


1 have  endured  the  agony  of  arid  places, 
impossible  shadows  that  dance  <it  dusk, 
the  spidery  light  of  mean  and  stony  days. 

I have  sifted  and  sifted  again  the  ashes  of  memory; 

haunted  wainscots  of  a ruined  house 

have  burned  in  arcs  of  time  that  form  no  bounds. 

Famine  and  darkness  find  me  dc  wn  a road 
that  rushes  on  to  grey  grottos  ol'  horror. 

There  1 shall  rot,  a wrinkled  ape,  extinguished. 


58  Twilight  Zone 


Artifice 


Walk  On,  My  Darling 


Everything  is  artifice; 

October  arranges 
incredible  tableaux; 

December,  sculptor  in  ice, 
hurls  down  his  savage  art; 
summer  surrounds  us 
with  fragrance  and  lace 
fragmented  by  insects. 

1 manage  the  shoddy  mechanics 
of  my  life 

interspersed  with  occasional  poems  — 
and  standing  on  the  summit, 

Death  devises  the  final  adieus, 
settling  us  into  the  earth, 
infertile  seeds 
that  fall  away 
to  bleak  and  ultimate 
artifice  of  bone. 


Listen,  my  dearest, 
while  the  late  winds  sigh, 
and  listening,  forget 
1 too  must  die. 

Walk  on,  my  darling, 
though  the  curlews  cry, 
and  never  turn  to  visit 
the  turf  where  1 shall  lie. 


Marsh  Moment 


A white  wedge  of  mist 
swung  over  the  salt  flats, 
far  off 

I heard  a fluidity  of  sea; 

a black  vulture 

flapped  out  of  the  fog, 

his  carrion  talons 

clutched  a thrust  of  twisted  tree; 

as  I moved  away, 

over  a thin  track  through  the  marsh, 
1 felt  his  red  eye 
on  me,  on  me. 


Winter  Dusk 

A brief  day.  A briefer  sun 
flames  once  on  the  broken  pine, 
once  on  the  pond, 
cemented  in  its  ice. 

*Ii  flames  across  a final  ditch 
and  drops  away,  as  if  it  dropped 
away  from  earth,  out  of  time, 
taking  time  with  it. 

Hell  may  be  desolate, 
but  this  winter  dusk 
rushing  toward  darkness 
would  serve  as  well. 


My  Father's  Death 

When  my  father  lay  dying, 
he  looked  out  on  brick  walls 
and  small  square  of  hospital  lawn, 
starkly  green  and  clipped. 

"It's  so  beautiful,"  he  said. 

Later  on,  he  spoke  of  the  sea. 

"I  can  smell  the  salt,"  he  said. 

"It's  such  a wonderful  smell," 

All  I smelled  was  ether, 
for  the  sea  was  far  away. 

And  when  he  died, 
shut  in  that  tiny  room, 

I saw  him  stare,  amazed, 
through  time  and  through  the  walls, 
a falcon  look  from  sudden  fearful  heights, 
was  seen  again  in  seconds. 

Turning  back  through  forty  years, 

I stand  beside  his  bed  once  more 
and  watch  him  peer  through  time 
toward  that  last  imponderable  shore. 


60  Twilight  Zone 


?,  ' 
!?• 


BEYOND  THE  ZONE . . . 


The  Way-Out  World  of  Feggo 


62  Twilight  Zone 


Felipe  Galindo 


T H E 


ESSENTIAL 


WRITERS 


glood 
rotliers 


by  Mike  Ashley 


THE  BENSONS  WERE  A TRIO  ONLY 
VICTORIAN  ENGLAND  COULD  HAVE  SPAWNED: 

THREE  BOOKISH  BACHELORS  WITH  ECCENTRIC  TASTES 
AND  A PARTICULAR  PASSION  FOR  GHOST  STORIES. 


as  there  ever  such  a family 
as  the  Bensons? 

Did  someone  ask  who?  Well, 
I'm  not  surprised;  sucli  is  the  fleeting 
glory  of  fame.  But  seventy-five  years 
ago  that  same  question  would  have 
seemed  absurd,  for  at  the  turn  of  the 
century  the  Benson  fanr  ily  was  famous, 
possibly  even  notorious. 

There  was  the  father,  for  instance, 
Edward  White  Benson  the  somewhat 
daunting  Archbishop  of  Canterbury 
whose  wife,  Mary,  was  regarded  by 
Prime  Minister  Gladstone  as  the  clever- 
est woman  in  Europe.  Behind  the 
scenes,  though,  all  was  not  marital 
bliss,  and  in  later  life  Mrs.  Benson 
entered  into  a lesbian  relationship  with 
Lucy  Tait,  the  daughter  of  an  earlier 
Archbishop.  Then  there  were  the  chil- 
dren, amongst  them  a daughter  who 
turned  homicidal;  a sen,  regarded  by 
many  as  Britain's  unofficial  poet  laure- 
ate, who  had  lengthy  and  near-suicidal 
bouts  of  depression  but  who  also  wrote 
possibly  the  most  popular  song  in 
England,  "Land  of  Hope  and  Glory"; 
another  son  who  coneerted  from  the 
Anglican  church  to  become  a Catholic 
priest;  and  a third  whe  rocked  Victor- 
ian society  with  a rather  indiscreet  first 
novel  which  thereafter  earned  him  the 
nickname  of  "Dodo."  Yet  these  same 
three  sons  also  produced  some  of  Bri- 
tain's most  fascinating  supernatural 
stories. 

Indeed,  was  then;  ever  such  a 
family  as  the  Bensons? 


The  head  of  the  family,  Edward 
White  Benson  (1829-1896),  was  the 
image  of  the  stem  Victorian  father.  In 
1858  he  was  appointed  the  first  head- 
master of  Wellington  College  in 
Berkshire,  to  the  west  of  London.  His 
success  there  led,  in  1877,  to  his  ap- 
pointment as  the  first  Bishop  of  Truro 
after  a short  period  as  Chancellor  of 
Lincoln  Cathedral.  Finally,  in  1882,  he 
was  elevated  to  the  rank  of  Archbishop 
of  Canterbury,  a position  he  held  ad- 
mirably until  his  death  at  the  age  of 
sixty-seven. 

Benson  married  his  second  cousin 
Mary  (known  as  Minnie)  Sidgwick  in 
1859.  He  was  thirty,  she  seventeen, 
and  he  had  been  infatuated  with  her 
since  she  was  eleven.  Raised  in  typical 
Victorian  innocence,  young  Minnie 
never  really  recovered  from  the  trauma 
of  her  wedding  night,  for  discovering 
the  facts  of  life  left  her  with  permanent 
mental  scars;  while  the  couple  always 
maintained  an  outward  veneer  of  re- 
spectability, and  though  Minnie  always 
remained  faithful  to  Benson  during  his 
lifetime,  they  could  never  be  called 
close.  Instead,  she  turned  to  her  chil- 
dren. There  were  six  of  them,  all  born 
in  Wellington  and  all  but  the  last  bom 
during  the  first  eight  years  of  her 
marriage. 

First  was  Martin  (1860-1878),  per- 
haps the  most  promising  of  them  all. 
An  astonishing  scholar,  he  was  clearly 
destined  for  great  things  when  a form 
of  cerebral  meningitis  struck  him  down 


at  seventeen.  The  loss  of  his  first  and 
favorite  son  devastated  the  father,  and 
he  never  fully  came  to  terms  with  it. 

Second  was  Arthur  Christopher 
(1862-1925),  one  of  our  subjects.  Then 
came  two  daughters:  Mary  (1863- 
1890),  known  as  Nellie,  and  Margaret 
(1865-1916),  or  Maggie.  Edward  Fred- 
eric* (1867-1940)  followed,  and  finally 
Robert  Hugh  (1871-1914).  All  three 
surviving  sons  became  immensely  pro- 
lific writers,  though  none  achieved  his 
fame  predominantly  in  the  super- 
natural field.  Incidentally,  although 
they  always  signed  their  books  simply 
with  their  initials — as  A.  C.,  E.F.,  or 
R.H.  Benson — they  were  known  to 
each  other  as  Arthur,  Fred,  and  Hugh. 
The  three  of  them  excelled  in  their 
education,  passing  at  length  to  Cam- 
bridge—Arthur  and  Fred  to  King's  Col- 
lege, Hugh  to  Trinity.  All  three  studied 
the  classics,  although  Fred  turned  his 
attention  to  archaeology  and  Hugh  to 
theology. 

Arthur  was  an  exemplary  scholar, 
delighting  in  study  and  writing.  The 
academic  life  was  all  he  wanted,  and  in 
1885  he  accepted  a Mastership  at  Eton. 
He  matured  into  a tall,  well-built, 
handsome  young  man,  though  he 
would  later  become  a rather  solid  six- 
teen stone  (224  pounds).  He  asked  for 


‘There  is  no  k,  although  many  books  acci- 
dently spell  it  with  one.  Since  BensOn  sel- 
dom wrote  it  in  full,  it's  little  surprise  that 
even  his  close  friends  got  it  wrong. 


Twilight  Zone  63 


Russell  & Sons 


little  out  of  life,  content  to  spend  his 
days  teaching  the  classics  and  his  eve- 
nings writing.  The  picture  of  A.  C. 
Benson  is  one  of  a man  never  more 
happy  than  when  closeted  away  at 
work  on  books,  essays,  and  countless 
letters,  as  well  as  his  voluminous  diary, 
perhaps  the  longest  ever  kept  by  one 
person.  He  started  it  in  1897  and  con- 
tinued it  till  his  death,  nearly  five 
million  words  later. 

Fred,  too,  thoroughly  enjoyed  his 
days  at  school,  where  he  excelled  at 
games.  He  was  a wonderful  athlete 
with  a fondness  for  winter  sports,  espe- 
cially skating.  He,  too,  became  a hand- 
some young  man,  taller  and  less  stout 
than  Arthur,  and  with  a devilish  twin- 
kle in  his  eye.  It  would  not  be  far  from 
the  truth  to  say  that  Fred  never  really 
grew  up,  living  most  of  his  life  like  an 
overgrown  schoolboy,  always  out  to 
have  a "ripping"  time,  socializing  with 
the  hoi-polloi,  and  ready  to  participate 
in  any  pranks  that  weren't  to  his  detri- 
ment. He  relived  most  of  his  school 
days  in  his  popular  novel  David  Blaize 
(1916).  To  a great  extent  Fred's  ability 
to  remain  young  at  heart  was  his 
salvation  when,  with  the  exception  of 
Hugh,  the  rest  of  the  family  suffered 


from  mental  and  spiritual  disintegration. 

As  for  Hugh,  he  was  an  alert,  im- 
patient, rather  precocious  child  who,  in 
any  other  family,  may  have  developed 
a talent  as  an  artist  or  musician  of  no 
mean  skill.  Instead  he  was  rather  way- 
ward, perhaps  spoiled,  becoming  the 
focus  of  his  parents'  affections,  es- 
pecially after  the  death  of  Martin.  He 
did  not  grow  tall  and  handsome,  like 
his  brothers,  but  was  rather  small, 
with  unusually  tiny  feet,  a somewhat 
cherubic  face,  and  an  unnaturally  shrill 
voice  which,  when  combined  with  a 
characteristic  stammer,  stood  Hugh  out 
from  others  in  any  company. 

None  of  the  children  married.  Ar- 
thur was  always  arguing  with  himself 
that  perhaps  he  should,  although  he 
loved  his  own  independence  too  much 
and,  more  to  the  point,  preferred  male 
company  to  female.  Fred,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  little  short  of  a misogynist, 
so  that  while  he  had  all  the  opportuni- 
ties that  Arthur  shunned,  he  regarded 
women  as  nothing  more  than  a nui- 
sance. Hugh  was  perhaps  the  most 
ideally  suited  for  marriage,  but  he  was 
soon  married  to  the  Church  and,  any- 
way, would  have  been  far  too  busy 
even  to  consider  the  possibility.  He 


was  ordained  deacon  by  his  father  in 
1894. 

Arthur,  as  the  eldest,  was  the  first 
to  turn  to  writing.  Hardly  was  he  en- 
sconced at  Eton  than  he  produced  his 
first  book,  a thinly  veiled  auto- 
biographical no\'el  called  Memoirs  of 
Arthur  Hamilton  (1886).  Thereafter  the 
bulk  of  his  output  was  nonfiction,  in- 
cluding studies  of  noted  episcopalian 
and  literary  figures.  There  were  also 
books  of  verse,  the  first.  Poems,  ap- 
pearing in  1893  Queen  Victoria  held 
him  in  high  regard,  treating  him  as  an 
unofficial  poet  kiureate  in  preference  to 
the  appointed  j\lfred  Austin,  and  it 
was  A.C.  Benson  who  wrote  the  lyrics 
"Land  of  Hope  and  Glory"  to  accom- 
pany Edward  Elgar's  Pomp  and  Cir- 
cumstance March  No.  1 when  it  was 
adapted  for  Edward  VII's  Coronation 
Ode  in  1902.  The  song  has  become 
England's  unofficial  and  unashamedly 
jingoistic  nation.il  anthem. 

Fred  tried  to  emulate  his  older 
brother,  though  from  the  start  his  pri- 
mary interest  was  fiction.  The  lengthy 
scratchings  of  v^hat  later  evolved  into 
his  first  novel.  Dodo  (1893),  began  at 
Cambridge.  Some  of  it  was  even  plot- 
ted with  his  sister  Maggie,  and  the  ear- 


64  Twilight  Zone 


Photo  by  C.  Vondyk,  from  Along  the  Hoad  by  A.C.  Benson  (London:  James  NIsbet,  1913) 


family  appears  to  have  been  somewhat 
psychic.  Certainly  the  mother  was  of 
that  inclination.  G.K.  Chesterton  once 
observed  that  Mrs.  Benson  not  only 
seemed  to  know  everyone  who  had 
seen  a ghost,  but  every  ghost  as  well! 

The  elder  Benson,  however,  had 
more  than  a peripheral  interest  in  the 
occult.  In  his  early  days  at  Cambridge 
he  had  founded  a Ghost  Society  which 
later,  through  the  work  of  his  brother- 
in-law  Henry  Sidgwick,  became  the 
Society  for  Psychical  Research. 
Through  the  organization  Edward  Ben- 
son became  something  of  an  expert  on 
hauntings  and  psychic  phenomena,  and 
this  knowledge  stayed  with  him  when 
in  later  years  the  press  of  work 
stopped  him  from  actively  pursuing 
this  interest.  Among  the  more  intrigu- 
ing cases  that  came  to  Benson's  notice 
was  one  he  later  reported  to  his  close 
friend  Henry  James.  The  author  later 
made  use  of  the  case  in  his  classic 
ghost  story.  The  Turn  of  the  Screw. 
James  remained  in  touch  with  the  fami- 
ly until  his  death.  He  actively  encour- 
aged the  boys  in  their  writing  pursuits, 
and  both  Fred  and  Arthur  frequently 
visited  the  author  at  his  home.  Lamb 
House,  in  Rye.  After  James's  death, 
Fred  Benson  took  up  residency  there. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that,  in 
the  Victorian  tradition,  Edward-Benson 
would  rfell  his  children  ghost  stories, 
especially  on  the  long  winter  evenings. 
It  was  a tradition  that  Arthur  contin- 
ued, for  though  he  had  no  children  of 
his  own,  his  pupils  at  Eton  were  a 
more  than  adequate  substitute.  One  of 
the  pupils,  Edward  Ryle,  later  set 
down  his  memories  of  those  days: 

On  Sunday  evenings  in  winter,  for 
about  forty  minutes  before  supper  he 
would  “tell  a story”  to  any  members  of 
the  House  who  cared  to  listen  to  it.  Most 
of  the  Lower  Boys  and  a good  number  of 
the  Seniors  made  a point  of  attending.  A 
few  minutes  before  the  appointed  hour  we 
used  to  assemble  in  his  dark  and*deserted 
study.  There  was  considerable  competition 
for  the  sofa  and  arm-chairs:  those  who 
failed  to  obtain  a seat  of  any  kind  sprawled 
upon  the  floor.  Exactly  at  the  appointed 
moment  “my  Tutor"  would  emerge  from 
his  little  privy  writing-room,  which  was 
rather  a mystery  to  us.  To  this  day  I don’t 
know  exactly  where  it  was.  He  would  turn 
up  the  light  in  a green-shaded  reading- 
lamp  on  a little  table,  bury  himself  in  his 
great,  deep  leathern  arm-chair  by  the  side 
of  the  table,  frown  prodigiously  at  his 
hands  clasped  before  his  face,  and  from 
out  of  a deathless  stillness  inquire, 

I 


Left  to  right: 
R.H.,  E.F., 
and  A.C. 
Benson. 


ly  version  was  hugely  criticized  on 
style  and  form  by  the  author  Henry 
James,  a close  friend  of  the  family. 
Having  delivered  the  manuscript  to  a 
publisher  before  leaving  on  an  archaeo- 
logical trip  to  Athens,  Fred  returned 
after  the  first  year  to  find  the  book  had 
become  an  instant  success.  By  Victor- 
ian standards  it  was  a rather  risque 
novel,  portraying  the  social  rise  of  an 
ambitious  if  rather  brainless  "modern 
girl."  Although  Benson  denied  it, 
critics  were  unanimous  in  seeing  the 
heroine  as  a thinly  disguised  Margot 
Tennant,  later  Lady  Oxford,  then 
much  in  the  news.  This  combination  of 
satire  and  scandal  caught  the  public 
mood  at  the  right  time,  and  it  made 
E.F.  Benson  a celebrity,  all  the  more  so 
because  the  scandalmongers  wondered 
how  the  twenty-five-year-old  son  of  an 
Archbishop  could  write  a book  so 
"candidly  unepiscopal."  It  catapulted 
Fred  into  the  social  lirrelight,  a posi- 
tion in  which  he  reveled,  and  thereafter 
he  made  up  his  mind  to  be  a writer. 
The  result  was  a life  spent  trying  to 
repeat  this  success  and  a career  that 
produced  over  a hundred  books  on  a 
giddy  variety  of  topics.  While  much  of 
his  output  was  enjoyable,  especially 


the  humorous  series  about  Lucia  and 
Miss  Mapp,  two  mischief-making  fe- 
males whose  parishional  exploits  have 
remained  popular  to  this  day,  for  the 
most  part  his  work  is  forgotten.  In  the 
end  it  is  the  horror  field  that  has 
helped  keep  his  name  alive. 

• Fred's  earliest  excursion  into  the 
supernatural  came  soon  after  the  suc- 
cess of  Dodo  and  the  dismal  failure  of 
its  successor.  The  Rubicon  (1894), 
when,  in  an  attempt  to  create  a further 
stir,  he  wrote  The  Judgement  Books 
(1895).  Appearing  only  a few  years 
after  the  success  of  Oscar  Wilde's  The 
Picture  of  Dorian  Gray  (1891),  it  takes 
its  cue  from  that  novel  and  explores 
the  influence  of  a supernatural  paint- 
ing. While  clearly  derivative,  it  was 
nevertheless  good  practice  for  Fred  in 
the  creation  of  mood  and  atmosphere 
which  would  serve  him  well  in  his  later 
books. 

Before  turning  to  these,  however, 
we  should  trace  the  brothers'  supernat- 
ural interest  back  to  its  start. 

Much  of  the  blame — or  credit,  de- 
pending on  your  viewpoint — must  rest 
with  the  father,  Edward  White  Benson, 
although  to  varying  degrees  the  whole 


Twilight  Zone  65 


kK»d 
ratliC9« 

“Where  had  we  got  to?”  Nobody  ever  re- 
plied, and  after  a short  pause  he  would 
briefly  indicate  the  point  at  which  we  had 
arrived  the  preceding  Sunday,  and  then 
steadily,  but  not  monotonously,  and  in  a 
low  conversational  tone  of  voice,  with  nev- 
er a check,  he  would  narrate  what  was  to 
me,  at  least,  and  (I  know)  to  most  of  his 
audience,  an  absorbing  tale. 

Ryle  continues  for  another  page 
on  the  glorious  memories  of  those 
"Eton  Nights'  Entertainments,"  which 
only  emphasizes  the  fondness  and 
respect  with  which  A.C.  Benson  was 
remembered.  "No  one  who  ever  heard 
him  could  deny  that  he  was  a glorious 
story-teller,"  Ryle  concludes. 

Fred  Benson  sometimes  attended 
his  brother's  fireside  moments,  and  he 
adapted  one  of  the  tales  as  The  Luck 
of  the  Vails  (1901),  a macabre  murder 
mystery  which,  while  devoid  of  any 
supernatural  elements,  was  so  soaked 
in  atmosphere  that  many  consider  it 
^ , the  best  of  Fred's  novels.  Michael 
Sadleir,  the  literary  historian,  calls  it 
"at  once  dramatic  and  brilliant,  terror 
and  wit  being  perfectly  fused." 

Aware  of  the  popularity  of  his 
stories,  Arthur  committed  them  to 
print  in  two  volumes.  The  Hill  of 
Trouble  (1903)  and  The  Isles  of  Sunset 
(1904).  They  are  mostly  moral  tales — 
"archaic  little  romances,"  Arthur  him- 
self called  them— set  in  some  unspeci- 
fied medieval  time  and  dealing  with  the 
deeds  and  dooms  of  various  knights 
and  priests.  There  is  something  of  the 
mood  of  William  Morris  about  them. 
Morris  was,  at  this  same  time,  working 
on  fantasies  such  as  The  Wood  Beyond 
the  World  (1894)  and  Child  Chris- 
topher and  Goldilind  the  Fair  (1895), 
and  while  Benson  had  no  great  affec- 
tion for  Morris  the  socialist,  he  did  ad- 
mire Morris  the  writer,  and  shared  his 
love  "for  the  kindly  earth,  and  the  sim- 
ple country  business." 

Not  all  of  the  stories  involve  the 
supernatural— some  are  merely  simple 
allegories— but  they  all  possess  a 
glamor  of  the  unworldly.  There  is  no 
lack  of  vision  or  imagery  in  the  stories, 
and  it's  clear  that  Benson  made  full  use 
of  the  many  weird  dreams  that  plagued 
him  throughout  his  life  and  which  he 
recorded  in  his  diary.  These  dreams 
were  always  vivid  and  frequently  un- 
pleasant. (Dne  example,  from  February, 
1896,  concerns  a tramp  whom  he  saw 
washing  something  over  a well.  He 
first  thought  it  was  a rabbit, 

but  I presently  saw  that  it  was  a small  de- 


Benson  made 
full  use 
of  the 

many  weird 
dreams  that 
plagued  him. 

formed  hairy  child,  with  a curious  lower 
jaw,  very  shallow:  over  the  face  it  had  a 
kind  of  horny  carapace  . . . made  of  some 
material  resembling  pottery.  I was  dis- 
gusted at  this  but  went  on,  and  it  grew 
dark:  I heard  behind  me  an  odd  sound 
and  turning  round  saw  this  horrible  crea- 
ture only  a foot  or  two  high,  walking  com- 
placently after  me,  with  its  limbs  involved 
in  ugly  and  shapeless  clothes,  made,  it 
seemed  to  me,  of  oakum,  or  some  more 
distressing  material.  The  horror  of  it  ex- 
ceeded all  belief. 

Certainly  both  Arthur  and  Fred 
used  dreams  as  a device  in  several  of 
their  stories,  usually  as  portents.  In  Ar- 
thur's "The  Gray  Cat,"  for  instance, 
Roderick,  the  young  son  of  a knight, 
while  out  on  his  own  one  day,  is 
strangely  affected  by  a dark  pool  in  the 
hills.  "Thereafter  he  is  plagued  by 
dreams,  first  of  two  men  emerging 
from  the  pool  and  claiming  Roderick 
as  their  own,  and  then  of  being 
trapped  in  the  pool  with  the  water  ris- 
ing. Roderick  is  only  released  from  his 
suffering  after  much  tribulation  and 
one  cannot  help  but  wonder  how  much 
of  A.C.  Benson  there  is  in  the  char- 
acter of  Roderick. 

Perhaps  the  most  memorable  of 
Arthur's  fireside  tales  is  "The  Closed 
Window,"  which  has  much  of  M.R. 
James  about  it  (TZ  Dec.  '81).  James,  in 
fact,  was  a fairly  close  acquaintance  of 
the  Bensons.  Arthur  and  "Monty"  had 
been  fellow  scholars  at  King's  College, 
and  Fred  studied  there  when  the  latter 
was  Dean.  Fred  was  also  at  the  in- 
augural meeting  of  the  Chit-Chat  Club 
in  1893  when  M.  R.  James  read  the  first 
of  his  own  ghost  stories. 

Arthur's  "The  Closed  Window"  is 
set  in  the  Tower  of  Nort,  home  of  the 
good  knight  Sir  Mark  and  his  cousin 
Roland.  It  tells  of  a room  in  the  turret 


which  has  been  sealed  shut  since  the 
bizarre  death  ol'  Mark's  grandfather, 
who  lived  at  Ncrt  under  the  blight  of 
some  strange  shadow.  The  tower  room 
has  four  windows,  one  of  which  is 
locked  and  barred  and  bears  the  in- 
scription CLAUDIT  ET  NEMO  APERIT  [He 
Shutteth  and  None  Openethj.  One  sun- 
ny day  curiosity  gets  the  better  of 
Mark,  who  opens  the  window  to  dis- 
cover a world  of  darkness  with  a 
bleak,  rocky  landscape  and  a shape 
"like  a crouching  man"  that  beckons 
him.  At  length  ii:  is  Roland,  not  Mark, 
who  takes  it  upon  himself  to  venture 
into  the  world,  resulting  in  one  of  the 
author's  most  climactic  scenes. 

A.C.  Benson's  fireside  tales — in 
addition  to  making  Arthur  himself  a 
published  supernatural  writer  and  fur- 
nishing Fred  with  the  plot  of  one  of  his 
best  novels — als(3  inspired  Hugh  to  set 
pen  to  paper.  The  years  since  Hugh's 
ordination  had  seen  him  traveling  to 
the  Holy  Land  and  Egypt  as  well  as 
serving  among  t ne  poor  in  London  be- 
fore settling,  in  1901,  into  a commu- 
nity life  in  the  House  of  the  Resurrec- 
tion at  Mirfield,  near  Bradford,  an 
Anglican  establishment  run  on  Benedic- 
tine lines.  It  was  here,  with  his  time  di- 
vided equally  between  evangelical 
work  and  study,  that  Hugh  composed 
the  stories  later  published  as  The  Light 
Invisible  (1903).  The  contents  are  not 
stories  in  the  formal  sense,  but  rather 
episodes  and  incidents  related  by  one 
priest  to  another,  telling  of  odd,  fleet- 
ing visions  and  matters  unworldly.  Few 
of  the  stories  stand  well  on  their  own, 
possessing  instead  a collective  atmo- 
sphere, althoug.1  "The  Traveller" — in 
which  the  spirit  of  one  of  the  knights 
who  murdered  Thomas  a Beckett  still 
restlessly  seeks  absolution — has  an  in- 
dividual merit. 

Although  he  was  the  last  of  the 
Benson  brothers  to  toy  with  the  super- 
natural in  fiction,  Hugh  was  possibly 
the  best  of  the  three.  His  stories  carry 
a sense  of  conv.ction  that  is  absent  in 
those  by  Arthur  and  Fred,  and  it  is 
likely  that  Huga  had  a greater  expe- 
rience of  the  occult  than  his  brothers. 
In  his  early  days  he  was  a Swedenbor- 
gian,  in  the  manner  of  Le  Fanu  (TZ 
Jan.  '82),  and  was  keenly  aware  of  the 
spirit  world  that  surrounds  us,  while  in 
his  later  years  f e explored  the  psychic 
realms  more  actively,  attending  seances 
and  performing  exorcisms.  For  good 
measure  he  was  also  an  accomplished 
hypnotist,  and  there  is  every  reason  to 
suspect  that  he  experimented  with  cer- 
tain drugs.  (He  was  also  a compulsive 


66  Twilight  Zone 


cigarette  smoker.)  Although  the  Benson 
family  was  a close  one,  Hugh  managed 
to  remain  the  loner,  always  following  a 
path  at  a tangent  to  everyone  else. 

So  it  was  that  during  his  days  at 
Mirfield  he  at  last  settled  the  mental 
anguish  that  had  troubled  him  for 
many  years  and,  in  July  1903,  instead 
of  renewing  his  vows,  he  set  himself  on 
the  path  to  become  a j^oman  Catholic. 
Fired  by  overwhelming  enthusiasm  and 
dedication,  his  progress  was  rapid,  and 
he  received  his  Holy  Orders  in  Rome 
in  1904.  Had  his  father  still  been  alive 
he  would  no  doubt  have  despaired  of 
the  news,  but  his  mc3ther,  in  whom 
Hugh  had  confided  all  along,  was  satis- 
fied that  Hugh's  inner  turmoil  was  now 
resolved.  Needless  to  say,  Hugh's  con- 
version to  Catholicism  made  him  a 
celebrity,  and  his  books  became  best- 
sellers, especially  By  What  Authority? 
(1904),  which  questioned  the  very  basis 
of  the  Church  of  England. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Hugh 
stumbled  across  the  book  Hadrian  VII 
(1904)  by  Frederick  Rolfe,  the  self- 
styled  "Baron  Corvo."  The  book  was  a 
wish-fulfillment  fantasy,  telling  how  a 
young  Englishman,  reiused  the  priest- 
hood, finds  himself  elected  Pope.  It 
struck  a responsive  chord  with  Hugh; 
he  felt  it  echoed  all  the  spiritual  tur- 
moil that  he  himsell  had  suffered. 
Hugh  wrote  Rolfe  to  congratulate  him, 
and  an  emotional  friendship  followed 
— though  it  lasted  only  so  long  as 
Rolfe  felt  he  could  benefit  form  it.  The 
two  agreed  to  collaborate  on  a novel 
about  Thomas  a Beckett,  though 
Hugh,  as  the  more  popular  writer  of 
the  day,  was  urged  to  keep  only  his 
name  and  not  Rolfe's  on  the  title  page. 
This  enraged  Rolfe,  who  adamantly  re- 
jected the  proposal.  The  project  was 
dropped  and  the  friendship  broken. 
Thereafter  Rolfe  heaped  abuse  on 
Hugh  at  every  opportunity  and  set  out 
to  caricature  him  in  a novel.  The 
Weird  of  the  Wanderer  (1912),  where 
Hugh  appears  as  the  Reverend  Bobugo 
Bonson.  Although  Hugh  tried  to  recon- 
cile matters  with  Rolfe,  it  was  to  no 
avail,  and  the  experience  left  Hugh 
bruised  emotionally. 

However,  it  certainly  did  not 
hinder  the  passion  witli  which  he  con- 
tinued to  write;  indeed  it  probably 
stoked  the  fire.  By  1908  Hugh  had  set- 
tled into  a supposedly  haunted  house 
in  the  little  hamlet  of  Hare  Street,  near 
Buntingford  in  Hertfordshire.  Over  the 
next  few  years  he  proved  to  be  an 
astonishingly  prolific  writer,  and 
though  his  total  ouput  fell  short  of  his 


brothers',  that  was  only  because  he 
had  so  much  less  time  in  which  to 
write.  He  worked  at  fever  pitch,  never 
at  a loss  for  ideas,  writing  with  the 
passion  of  a convert,  desperate  to 
share  his  thoughts.  In  1907  he  com- 
pleted a second  collection  of  stories  in 
the  same  vein  as  the  first,  but  with  a 
more  solid  framework  and  now  reflect- 
ing the  Catholic  outlook.  The  Mirror 
of  Shalott  is  a kind  of  Bensonian 
Canterbury  Tales,  but  with  the  stories 
told  in  turn  by  a company  of  seven 
priests  and  a layman  all  within  an  up- 
stairs room  in  Rome.  Curiously,  this 
book  has  occasioned  much  attention 
among  enthusiasts  of  the  genre.  Mon- 
tague Summers,  in  his  introduction  to 
The  Supernatural  Omnibus  in  1931, 
sidestepped  the  works  of  both  Arthur 
and  Fred  to  single  out  Hugh: 

The  ghost  stories  told  by  one  who  believes 
In  and  Is  assured  of  the  reality  of  appari- 
tions and  hauntings  . . . will  be  found  to 
have  a sap  and  savour  that  the  narrative 
of  the  writer  who  is  using  the  supernatural 
as  a mere  circumstance  to  garnish  his  fic- 
tion must  inevitably  lack  and  cannot  at- 
tain. . . . For  this  very  reason,  it  seems  to 
me  that  there  are  few  better  stories  of  this 
kind  than  those  the  late  Monsignor  Ben- 
son has  given  us  in  The  Mirror  of  Shalott 
and  other  of  his  work. 

Algernon  Blackwood  also  favored  this 
collection,  terming  it  "first  rate,"  and 
both  M.R.  James  and  Walter  de  la 
Mare  have  remarked  on  its  singularity. 
Some  of  the  stories  are,  again,  mere 
episodes,  but  others,  especially  "Father 
Girdlestone's  Tale,"  have  a power  and 
intensity  equal  to  any  tales  of  the 
supernatural.  Just  how  much  R.H. 
Benson  drew  on  his  own  experiences  of 
the  occult  is  not  known,  but  there  is  a 
conviction  about  the  stories  that  is 


Edward  White  Benson, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 


chillingly  effective. 

Hugh's  power  as  a writer  is  most 
evident  in  The  Necromancers  (1909), 
possibly  his  best  work.  It  tells  of  a 
young  man  whose  fiancee  dies  before 
their  marriage.  He  joins  a group  of 
spiritualists  in  the  hope  of  regaining 
her,  only  to  find  himself  possessed  by 
an  evil  spirit.  The  novel  leaves  no 
doubt  as  to  Hugh's  own  views  on  the 
phenomenon:  "Spiritualism  is  wrong," 
says  Benson  through  one  of  his  charac- 
ters. "Evil  spirits  are  at  us  all  the  time, 
trying  to  get  in  at  any  crack  they  can 
find.  At  se'ances  . . . you  open  yourself 
as  widely  as  possible  to  their  entrance. 
Very  often  they  can't  get  in;  and  then 
you're  only  bothered.  But  sometimes 
they  can,  and  then  you're  done.  It's 
particularly  hard  to  get  them  out 
again."  Elsewhere  Benson  gives  this 
particularly  apt  advice:  "To  go  to 
seances  with  good  intentions  is  like 
holding  a smoking-concert  in  a 
powder-magazine  on  behalf  of  an  or- 
phan asylum." 

The  Necromancers  is  Hugh  Ben- 
son's only  authentic  novel-length  weird 
fiction.  Several  of  his  other  books  are 
works  of  propaganda  couched  in  fic- 
tional terms.  The  Conventionalist 
(1908),  for  instance,  is  a study  of  the 
incursion  of  the  supernatural  into  Vic- 
torian society,  while  A Winnowing 
(1910)»  tells  of  a wealthy  young  * 
Catholic  devoted  to  worldy  matters 
who  is  brought  back  from  the  brink  of 
death  where  he's  had  a vision  of  the 
spirit  world  and  is  thereafter  a fervent 
Christian.  All  of  Hugh's  books  were 
written  to  promote  Catholicism,  even 
the  rather  unorthodox  Come  Rack! 
Come  Rope!  (1912),  with  its  convincing 
scenes  of  torture  under  the  Inquisition. 

But  perhaps  his  most  unusual  treat- 
ment of  the  message,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  the  most  obvious,  appears  in  his 
two  science  fiction  novels.  The  Lord  of 
the  World  (1907)  and  The  Dawn  of  All 
(1911).  The  first  is  an  apocalyptic  vi- 
sion of  the  world  in  the  next  century, 
portraying  the  confrontation  between 
the  Catholic  church,  then  centered  in 
Palestine,  and  the  Antichrist.  Hugh 
was  accused  of  being  depressing  and 
discouraging  in  that  book,  so  in  an- 
swer he  produced  The  Dawn  of  All, 
which  depicts  a Catholic  utopia  in  the 
1970s.  Today  the  book  is  little  more 
than  an  intriguing  novelty  with  some 
rather  accurate  prophecy  ("the  Euro- 
pean War  of  1914"),  along  with  some 
that  missed  the  mark  ("Berlin,  the  Holy 
City  of  Freemasonry"). 

By  1911,  Benson  was  private  cham- 


Twilight  Zone  67 


Our  Family  Affairs  by  E.F.  Benson  (Lbndon:  Cassell,  1927). 


Life  and  Letters  of  f^ggie  Benson  by  A.C.  Benson  (London:  John  Murray,  1917) 


berlain  to  Pope  Pius  X,  and  still  led  life 
at  a furious  pace,  writing  and  lecturing 
(he  toured  Europe  and  America)  along- 
side all  else.  In  the  end  it  took  its  toll. 
The  combination  of  a weak  heart  and 
pneumonia  led  to  an  early  death  on 
October  19,  1914,  at  the  age  of  forty- 
two.  "He  died  without  reluctance  or 
struggle,  just  ceasing  to  breathe,"  his 
brother  Fred  recalled. 

Perhaps  the  oddest  fact  about 
Hugh  Benson  concerns  the  directions 
left  for  his  burial.  Like  Edgar  Allan 
Poe,  he  was  terrified  of  being  buried 
alive,  and  he  set  down  very  specific  in- 
structions for  his  burial  in  a vault  in 
his  own  garden  at  Hare  Street.  As  Fred 
tells  it: 

This  vault  was  to  be  closed  with  an  iron 
door  which  could  be  unlocked  from  within, 
“and  the  coffin,”  he  directed,  “should  be 
lightly  made,  so  that  in  the  event  of  my 
being  buried  alive,  I could  escape,  and 
that  a key  (of  the  vault)  should  be  placed 
in  the  coffin.”  After  a month  it  was  to  be 
presumed  that  he  was  dead,  and  the  vault 
was  to  sealed  and  closed.  If  these  direc- 
tions could  not  be  carried  out,  he  en- 
treated his  executors  to  make  sure  that  he 


was  dead  by  having  an  artery  in  his  arm 
opened  “in  such  a way  that  death  would 
not  be  caused  if  I were  alive  ...  but  that  if 
life  were  still  in  me,  the  fact  would  be 
unmistakable." 

The  construction  of  a brick  vault  was 
no  easy  task  at  such  short  notice,  so 
the  alternative  precaution  was  taken, 
although  Hugh  was  buried  in  his 
garden  in  specially  consecrated  ground, 
and  a chapel  was  later  built  over  the 
spot. 

All  through  the  period  1904-1914 
when  Hugh  had  held  the  Benson  lime- 
light, Arthur  had  been  at  his  lowest 
ebb,  brought  about  predominantly 
through  the  mental  disintegration  of 
his  sister,  Maggie.  After  the  deaths  of 
Nellie  in  1890  and  Archbishop  Benson 
in  1896,  Maggie  had  attempted  to  as- 
sume both  their  roles  in  the  family 
structure.  More  and  more  she  tried  to 
become  the  dominant  personality,  but 
though  outwardly  she  played  the  role 
of  protector,  inwardly  she  needed  the 
love  and  protection  of  her  mother.  In- 
stead, the  mother's  love  was  channeled 
into  a lesbian  relationship  with  Lucy 


A Benson  family  portait,  1904.  Clockwise 
from  top  left:  A.C.,  FI.H.,  and  E.F. 

Benson;  the  family  nurse,  Beth;  the 
mother,  Mary;  and  the  sister,  Maggie. 

Tait.  An  uneasy  stability  sustained  the 
household  for  the  next  few  years,  but 
under  the  surface  Maggie  became  in- 
creasingly more  neurotic.  The  in- 
evitable came  in  1907  when  Maggie, 
"in  the  grip  of  violent  homicidal 
mania,"  as  Fred  recounted,  attacked 
either  her  mother  or  Lucy  Tait  (or 
both— the  facts  were  never  made  clear) 
with  a carving  knife.  Maggie  was 
removed  first  to  an  asylum  and  then 
into  the  private  c.ire  of  a doctor.  The 
girl's  growing  dementia  affected  Arthur 
more  than  his  br(3thers,  and  with  her 
final  breakdown  Arthur,  too,  slipped 
into  a state  of  de|3ression  which  lasted 
for  two  years.  He  wrote  in  his  diary:  "1 
felt  myself  brougit  face  to  face  with 
the  ultimate  and  inexorable  darkness." 

■This,  the  first  of  Arthur's  two  crit- 
ical periods  of  depiression,  is  chilling  to 
consider.  He  was  a man  who  loved 
life,  yet  once  caged  within  himself  he 
lost  all  zest  and  s]5irit.  It  is  sobering  to 
see  him  write: 

As  I sit  now  quietly  after  tea,  recalling  and 
sorting  my  impressions  of  the  sweet  things 
I have  seen,  I am  fi  led  with  the  old  melan- 
choly wonder  as  to  what  it  all  means,  why 
one  should  love  the  home,  the  earth,  the 
scene  so  passionately,  while  one  knows 
that  one  is  speeding  into  the  darkness  . . . 

The  depressi(3n  did  not  lift  until 
1910,  and  then  he  returned  to  full  col- 
lege life  and  to  writing  at  his  previous 
prodigious  rate.  .Ground  this  time  he 
wrote  several  o:-  his  ghost  stories, 
though  he  never  sought  to  have  them 
published.  They  were  found  after  his 
death  by  his  brother  Fred.  There  were 
enough  to  fill  two  volumes,  but  Fred 
only  selected  tv^o  novelettes  which 
were  subsequently  published  under  the 
title  Basil  Netherioy  in  1926.  Both  are 
highly  atmosphei'ic  tales  of  psychic 
gloom  attached  to  houses  and  people, 
and  they  clearly  :reflect  Benson's  states 
of  depression  anc  desolation.  Whether 
the  other  stories  survive  today  is  not 
clear,  but  we  can  live  in  hope.  Arthur 
also  produced  a sentimental  religious 
fantasy  about  im:'nortality  of  the  soul. 
The  Child  of  the  Dawn  (1911),  which 
is  uncharacteristically  optimistic  and 
was  prompted,  to  some  extent,  by 
Hugh's  novels. 

That  would  be  the  last  of  Arthur's 
imaginative  works,  though  he  con- 
tinued to  write  essays  and  a few  con- 
temporary novels.  In  1917,  after  Mag- 
gie's final  decline  and  death,  Arthur 
suffered  another  £.nd  more  intense  bout 
of  depression,  aggravated  still  further 


68  Twilight  Zone 


by  the  death  of  his  mo:her  in  1918.  All 
reason  for  living  had  gone.  He  even 
ceased  keeping  his  diary,  and  when  he 
did  resume  it  in  1922,  it  was  only  to 
record  that  he  had  suffered  1,862  con- 
secutive days  of  abject  misery. 

His  only  saving  grace  during  these 
years  was  a remarkable  friendship  that 
arose  through  correspcjndence  with  a 
rich  elderly  American  lady,  Mrs. 
de  Nottbeck,  who  lived  with  her  fami- 
ly in  Switzerland.  She  had  found  in- 
spiration through  Arthur's  books  and 
now  wished  only  to  make  repayment. 
Benson  at  first  declineil,  but  who  can 
withstand  a determined  woman?  Her 
first  payment  alone  amounted  to 
$200,000,  with  more  pi'omised.  Arthur 
administered  it  as  a trust  which  he 
used  for  the  enlargement  and  benefit  of 
Magdalene  College,  Cambridge — of 
which  he  had  become  Master  in  1915 
—and  its  pupils.  Cunously,  Arthur 
never  met  or  spoke  to  his  benefactress. 
After  his  death,  she  joined  with  Fred  in 
dedicating  the  noted  "Benedicite  win- 
dow" in  the  south  transept  of  Rye  par- 
ish church  to  his  memory.  Arthur  died 
of  pleurisy  shortly  after  midnight  on 
June  17,  1925,  aged  sixty-three,  leaving 
only  E.F.  Benson  to  carry  on  the 
supernatural  tradition. 

As  with  the  rest  of  the  family, 
Fred  had  his  paranormal  experiences. 
One  of  the  best  recorded  occurred  on 
the  grounds  of  Lamb  House,  Rye,  long 
after  he  had  settled  there.  One  warm 
and  windless  summer's  day  he  was 
seated  with  the  local  vicar  facing  a 
doorway  that  linked  the  main  garden 
with  an  annex.  Suddenly  Benson  saw 
the  figure  of  a man  walk  past  the 
opening: 

He  was  dressed  in  black  and  wore  a cape 
the  right  wing  of  which,  es  he  passed,  he 
threw  across  his  chest,  O'rer  his  left  shoul- 
der. His  head  was  turned  away  and  I did 
not  see  his  face.  The  glimpse  I got  of  him 
was  very  short,  for  two  steps  took  him 
past  the  open  doorway,  and  the  wall  be- 
hind the  poplars  hid  him  again.  Simul- 
taneously the  Vicar  jurrped  out  of  his 
chair,  exclaiming:  “Who  on  earth  was 
that?”  It  was  only  a step  to  the  open  door, 
and  there,  beyond,  the  garden  lay,  bask- 
ing in  the  sun  and  empty  of  any  human 
presence.  He  told  me  whel  he  had  seen:  it 
was  exactly  what  I had  seen,  except  that 
our  visitor  had  worn  hose,  which  I had  not 
noticed. 

' Reflecting  on  the  incident  in  later 
years,  Benson  was  sure  that  "the  Vicar 
and  1 saw  something  that  had  no  ex- 


Like  Edgar 
Allan  Poe, 
he  was 
terrified  of 
being  buried 
alive. 


istence  in  the  material  world."  Today 
guides  at  Lamb  House  will  tell  you  that 
the  ghost  was  probably  that  of  Alan 
Grebell,  the  brother-in-law  of  James 
Lamb,  the  founder  of  Lamb  House  and 
an  early  mayor  of  Rye.  Grebell  had 
been  carrying  out  a mission  for  Lamb 
on  a cold  winter's  night  and  had  bor- 
rowed his  in-law's  cloak.  Earlier  Lamb 
had  fined  the  local  butcher  for  short 
measure  and,  unbeknownst  to  Grebell, 
the  butcher  was  now  lurking  up  a side 
alley  with  a long  knife,  waiting  for  the 
opportunity  to  murder  Lamb.  Seeing 
Lamb's  cloak,  the  butcher  pounced, 
and  the  unfortunate  Grebell  was 
murdered. 

Benson  does  not  himself  suggest 
this  as  a solution  to  the  phantom,  but 
he  does  relate  the  full  story  in  all  its 
lurid  detail  in  his  book  Final  Edition 
(1940).  Benson  does  reveal,  however, 
that  during  his  tenancy  of  Lamb 
House,  a se'ance  was  held  in  the  garden 
room,  and  that  the  medium,  before 
passing  into  her  trance,  observed  that  a 
man  in  a cloak  was  sitting  in  an  ap- 
parently unoccupied  chair — the  very 
same  chair  that  the  mortally  wounded 
Grebell  had  dragged  himself  to  before 
dying. 

Such  incidents  are  fuel  to  a 
writer's  imagination,  and  though  not 
used  directly  in  any  of  Benson's  stories, 
they  were  clearly  an  inspiration.  Sev- 
eral of  his  stories  involve  contact  with 
the  unseen  in  gardens,  of  which  the 
best  is  "Naboth's  Vineyard,"  set  in  a 
house  in  an  English  seaside  town 
where,  in  the  garden,  is  heard  the 
sound  of  a stick  tapping  and  the  hob- 
ble of  limping  feet. 

Most  of  Benson's  supernatural 
stories  can  be  found  in  his  four  major 


collections.  The  Room  in  the  Tower 
(1912),  Visible  and  Invisible  (1923), 
Spook  Stories  (1928),  and  More  Spook 
Stories  (1934);  the  rest  are  tucked  away 
in  other  books  and  magazines.  Benson 
even  had  a few  stories  in  the  legendary 
American  pulp  magazine.  Weird  Tales. 

E.F.  Benson  did  not  set  out  to 
establish  any  special  place  for  himself 
in  the  horror  genre.  If  anything  he  was 
an  imitator,  lacking  the  conviction  of 
Hugh  and  the  intensity  of  Arthur,  but 
with  sufficient  imagination  to  lend  his 
stories  an  individuality.  He  wrote 
ghost  stories  because  he  enjoyed  that 
frisson  of  fear  himself.  He  felt  that  "the 
narrator  must  succeed  in  frightening 
himself  before  he  can  hope  to  frighten 
his  readers."  Perhaps  for  that  reason 
Benson  composed  many  of  his  stories 
in  the  first  person. 

When  he  used  an  idea  that  he 
liked,  it  was  not  unusual  to  find  him 
borrowing  it  again  and  again.  As  a 
result  a steady  diet  of  E.F.  Benson, 
unless  selected  carefully,  can  pall.  In 
some  stories  Fred  let  the  bare  boards 
show  through,  with  too  little  attempt 
to  make  them  convincingly  real  (try, 
for  instance,  "And  the  Dead  Spake — ," 
an  utterly  absurd  story  in  which  a man 
likens  the  human  brain  to  a gramo- 
phone record  and  tries  to  replay  deep- 
seated  memories).  But  these  are  minor 
infractions  which  one  must  expect  from 
an  author  as  prolific  as  Benson.  They 
are  far  outweighed  by  his  more  pol- 
ished and  inventive  tales. 

One  fine  example  is  "The  Room  in 
the  Tower,"  the  title  story  of  his  first 
collection.  It  grows  out  of  a recurrent 
dream  which  plagues  the  narrator's 
adolescence  and  early  manhood,  but 
which  never  reaches  a conclusion.  The 
narrator  only  knows  that  he  enters  a 
room  in  a tower  and  is  confronted  by 
something  terrible.  At  length  the  events 
in  the  dream  begin  to  enact  themselves, 
and  the  narrator  finds  himself  in  the 
room.  Awakened  in  the  pitch  darkness 
of  night  during  a storm,  he  sees  fleet- 
ingly  in  a flash  of  lightning  "a  figure 
that  leaned  over  the  end  of  the  bed, 
watching  me,"  wearing  a "close- 
clinging  white  garment,  spotted  and 
staid  with  mould."  In  the  stygian 
blackness  and  deathly  stillness  that  fol- 
lows, he  hears  "the  rustle  of  movement 
coming  nearer." 

- Here  Benson  is  genuinely  frighten- 
ing himself  and  hoping  to  chill  others. 
Dreams  are  used  to  good  effect,  just  as 
with  Arthur's  stories.  Fred,  in  fact, 
used  the  device  on  many  occasions.  In 
"The  Face,"  the  events  are  almost  re- 


Twilight  Zone  69 


played  scene  for  scene  as  a young  girl's 
recurrent  dreams  lead  inevitably  to  her 
doom.  In  fact,  if  any  single  theme  per- 
vades E.F.  Benson's  works,  it  is  that  of 
fate,  of  one's  unswervable  destiny, 
both  in  life  and  beyond  it.  It  recurs 
most  pointedly  in  "The  Outcast," 
which  makes  full  use  of  the  idea  almost 
tossed  away  at  the  end  of  "The  Room 
in  the  Tower,"  that  of  a coffin  which 
refuses  to  be  buried.  In  "The  Outcast" 
we  follow  the  life  and  death  of  a Mrs. 
Acres,  whose  body  houses  a spirit 
cursed  in  a former  life  never  to  rest  or 
find  shelter.  As  a consequence  all 
things  reject  Mrs.  Acres,  and  even  after 
her  death  on  board  ship,  when  she  is 
buried  in  the  English  Channel,  the  sea 
will  not  allow  her  rest,  and  she  is  cast 
up  on  the  shore.  When  laid  to  rest 
again  in  the  local  churchyard,  even  the 
earth  rejects  her. 

Unlike  some  of  Benson's  contem- 
poraries, who  left  much  unsaid  in  their 
stories,  Benson  liked  to  dwell  on  the 
, more  grotesque  and  gruesome  details, 
as  in  "The  Horror  Horn"  (see  page  72). 
But  Benson's  greatest  predilection  was 
for  things  glutinous  and  slimy,  espe- 
cially worms  and  slugs.  They  appear  as 
the  manifestations  of  evil  in  several 
stories.  "Negotium  Perambulans," 
which  H.P.  Lovecraft  thought  pos- 
sessed "singular  power,"  is  really  a 
rather  weak  attempt  at  imitating  M.R. 
James.  It  presents  a remote  Cornish  vil- 
lage with  a house  cursed  by  an  ancient 
evil  in  the  form  of  a gigantic  slug 
which  sucks  the  body  of  all  its  blood. 
In  "And  No  Bird  Sings"  we  find  a 
wood  devoid  of  all  animal  and  bird  life 
due  to  the  presence  of  an  elemental. 
Two  men  set  out  to  rid  the  wood  of 
this  unseen  evil  and  find  themselves  as- 
sailed by  something  "cold  and  slimy 
and  hairy,"  like  a giant  worm.  The 
same  sluglike  elemental  reappears  in 
"The  Thing  in  the  Hall,"  while  the  vic- 
tim in  "The  Sanctuary"  is  afflicted  by  a 
grey  worm.  Psychologists  may  well  in- 
terpret the  constant  reference  to  worms 
as  a reflection  of  Benson's  own  sup- 
pressed sexuality,  but  nevertheless  he 
found  it  a profound  store  for  horror 
tales.  The  frequent  reworking  of  the 
theme  does  tend  to  diminish  any  au- 
thentic terror,  but  there  is  one  story  in 
particular  in  which  Fred  employed 
the  theme  to  stunning  effect:  "Cater- 
pillars," a tale  many  consider  his 
masterpiece. 

Set,  for  once,  in  an  Italian  villa,  it 
tells  of  the  terrifying  dreams  that  the 
narrator  suffers.  First,  entering  an  un- 
occupied bedroom,  he  sees  that  the 


•four-poster  bed  is  a mass  of  writhing 
greyish-yeUow  caterpillars,  all  a foot  or 
more  in  length  and  with  crablike  pin- 
cers instead  of  suckers.  The  caterpillars 
become  aware  of  his  presence  and  turn 
their  attention  to  him,  pursuing  him 
back  to  his  own  room.  The  next  day 
just  such  a caterpillar,  though  of  nor- 
mal size,  is  found  by  another  of  the 
guests,  a painter  called  Inglis.  The  fol- 
lowing night  the  narrator  suffers 
another  dream,  and  this  time  is  forced 
to  witness  a relentless  tide  of  caterpil- 
lars as  they  mount  the  stairs  and  force 
their  way  into  the  painter's  bedroom. 
Later,  the  symbolic  significance  of  "the 
crab"  is  brought  home  to  the  narrator 
when  he  learns  that  from  that  second 
evening  on,  Inglis  has  contracted 
cancer. 

Being  so  prolific,  E.F.  Benson 
turned  to  most  of  the  traditional  hor- 
ror themes  for  his  stories.  "Mrs.  Am- 
worth,"  for  instance,  is  a fairly  typical 
vampire  story.  "The  Man  Who  Went 
Too  Far"  employs  the  back-to-nature 
theme  that  was  rather  common  in  late 
Victorian  fantasies,  especially  in  the 
work  of  Algernon  Blackwood  and  Ar- 
thur Machen  (TZ  Sept.  '82),  and  it  was 
a theme  he  expanded  in  his  novel  The 
Angel  of  Pain  (1905).  "In  the  Tube" 
and  "The  Bed  by  the  Window"  show 
that  he  shared  with  H.G.  Wells  and 
again  with  Algernon  Blackwood  a fas- 
cination for  time  and  other  dimensions. 
"Gavon's  Eve"  uses  witchcraft  as  its 
central  theme,  while  there  are  any 
number  of  stories  involving  seances 
and  spiritualists.  His  novel  The  Image 
in  the  Sand  (1905)  concerns  a vengeful 
Egyptian  spirit;  Colin  and  Colin  II 
(1923-25) — actually  one  long  novel 
split  in  two — tell  of  a man  who  sells 
his  soul  to  the  devil,  while  The  In- 
heritor (1930)  deals  with  a family  curse 
in  which  alternate  generations  are  bom 
hairy  and  cloven-hoofed.  Curiously, 
though  his  novels  contain  some  of  his 
best  writing,  they  are  long  out  of  print 
and  are  virtually  forgotten.  Only 
Raven's  Brood  (1934),  his  last  weird 
novel,  has  seen  any  recent  revival,  'and 
even  then  it  was  misrepresented  as  a 
typical  paperback  gothic,  complete 
with  lighted  turret  window  and  back- 
ward-glancing fleeing  maiden  on  the 
cover. 

Benson  was  at  his  best  when  pro- 
ducing genuine  ghost  stories,  for  which 
he  earned  an  enviable  reputation  in  the 
1920s,  with  magazines  proudly  declar- 
ing on  their  covers,  "Another  Spook 
Story  by  E.F.  Benson."  It  was  this 
blurb  that  inspired  the  titles  of  his  last 


two  collections,  and  indeed  Spook 
Stories  contains  much  of  his  best  work. 
Apart  from  the  already  mentioned 
"And  No  Bird  Sings,"  "The  Face,"  and 
the  very  excellent  "Naboth's  Vine- 
yard," there  are  tales  of  spectral  retri- 
bution such  as  "The  Tale  of  an  Empty 
House,"  "Expiation,"  "Home,  Sweet 
Home"  with  its  chilling  vision  of  a 
piano  that  starts  to  play  silently  by  it- 
self, "The  Corner  House,"  and  the  od- 
dly titled  "Spinach,"  which  is  set  in 
and  around  his  beloved  Rye. 

In  his  last  years,  old,  crotchety, 
and  crippled  by  arthritis,  Fred  spent 
less  and  less  time  writing.  He  was  now 
a key  part  of  the  life  of  Rye,  serving  as 
its  mayor  from  1934  to  1937.  He  was 
elected  Speaker  of  the  Cinque  Ports 
and  was  also  awarded  the  Order  of  the 
British  Empire.  He  had  installed  in  the 
parish  church  two  beautiful  stained 
glass  windows,  the  first  in  1928  in 
memory  of  his  brother  Arthur,  the  sec- 
ond in  1937  dedicated  to  his  parents. 
This  last,  the  west  window,  includes 
the  figure  of  E.F.  Benson  himself  in  his 
mayoral  robes.  What  other  writers  of 
ghost  stories  have  such  a shining 
memorial? 

Benson  wrote  a number  of  books 
about  himself  and  his  family.  The  best 
is  Final  Edition  (1940),  subtitled  an  "In- 
formal Biography."  It  is  a most  reveal- 
ing book;  it  was  also  his  last.  Ten  days 
after  delivering  the  manuscript  to  the 
publisher,  he  died  while  undergoing  an 
operation  at  University  College  Hospi- 
tal in  London,  cn  February  29,  1940. 
He  was  seventy-  two,  the  last  of  the 
Benson  brothers,  each  of  whom  had 
lived  within  his  own  private  world.  It 
is  perhaps  fitting  that  today  we  can  re- 
member them  for  their  fantasies  and 
dreams.  @ 


Many  thanks  to  the  devoted  Benson  expert 
and  anthologist  Hugh  Lamb  for  his  help 
and  advice  with  this  article,  and  for  offering 
so  freely  his  knowledge  of  the  Benson  fami- 
ly and,  in  particular,  of  E.F.  Benson's 
novels.  I would  aho  unhesitatingly  recom- 
mend, to  those  who  wish  to  know  more 
about  the  Bensons,  E.F.  Benson's  As  FVe 
Were  and  As  IVe  Are.  A.  C.  Benson  wrote 
a memoir  of  his  brother,  Hugh,  while  C.C. 
Martindale  wrote  the  formal  biography. 
The  Life  of  Monsignor  Robert  Hugh  Ben- 
son, in  1925,  and  more  recently  David 
Newsome  has  published  On  the  Edge  of 
Paradise  (subtitled  "A.  C.  Benson — The 
Diarist")  and  Edwardian  Excursions.  Final- 
ly, a pair  of  books  that  look  at  the  family 
as  a whole  are  Two  Victorian  Families 
(1971)  by  Betty  Askwith  and  Genesis  and 
Exodus  (1979)  by  David  Williams. 


70  Twilight  Zone 


Preserve  the  Past. 


Store  TVCILIGHT  ZONE  in  style! 
Now  you  can  preserve  TZ  in  a durable 
blue  vinyl  binder  designed  expressly  for  the 
magazine.  Each  binder  holds  12  issues  and 
makes  a great  gft.  Order  yours  at  just 
$7.95  each,  or  take  advantage  of  our 
special  offer:  Order  6 back  issues  and 
receive  your  binder  for  just  $5.95. 

JULY  ’81:  A dozen  new  tales  by  Robert  Silverberg,  Robert  Sheckley, 
Ron  Goulart,  Charles  L.  Grant,  Stanley  Schmidt,  & others;  Sw/rerman’s 
Richard  Conner  on  directing  The  Twilight  Zone;  Serling’s  tv  chiller.  The 
Eye  of  the  Beholder;  Show-by-Show  #4.  SEPTEMBER:  Richard  Matheson 
interview;  new  fiction  by  John  Sladek,  Gary  Brandner,  &.  Parke  Godwin; 
tv  history.  Forerunners  of  ‘The  Twilight  Zone’;  Serling  classic.  Time  Enougfi 
at  Last;  Dr.  Van  Helsing  on  fear  of  ghosts;  Show-by-Show  #6. 
NOVEMBER:  New  tales  by  Tanith  Lee,  Thomas  Disch,  Ramsey  Camp- 
bell, Stanley  Schmidt,  &.  Clark  Howard;  John  Saul  interview;  TZ  script. 
Death's  Head  Revisited;  previev'  of  Halloween  II;  Dr.  Van  Helsing  on  the 
joy  of  terror;  Show-by-Show  #8.  DECEMBER:  An  outspoken  interview 
with  Harlan  Ellison;  The  Midnight  Sun,  TZ  classic  script;  M.R.  James  pro- 
file & James  classic.  The  Ash-Tree;  Quest  for  Fire  preview;  8 new  tales  of 
humor  & horror;  Show-by-Shovj  #9.  JANUARY  ’82:  Rod  Serling  recalls 
My  Most  Memorable  Christmas;  Frank  Belknap  Long  recalls  H.P. 
Lovecraft;  Ghost  Story  preview;  fiction  by  Robert  Sheckley,  Reginald 
Bretnor,  Parke  Godwin,  Connie  Willis,  & John  Morressy;  The  Night  of 
the  Meek,  Santa  in  TZ  classic;  l^Fanu  profile  & classic  tale;  Show-by-Show 
#10.  MARCH:  Fritz  Leiber  interview,  plus  Leiber  classic;  8 new  tales  by 
Ron  Goulart,  Robert  Vardeman,  & others;  on  the  set  of  The  Thing; 
preview  of  Stab,  with  Roy  Sch  eider  & Meryl  Streep;  Serling’s  A Passage 
for  Trumpet;  Show-by-Show  #12.  JUNE:  Richard  Matheson’s  unseen  TZ 
script,  The  Doll;  Philip  K.  Dick  interview;  Blade  Runner  preview;  Fantasy 
in  Clay  photo  feature;  9 new  tales  by  Pamela  Sargent,  Richard  Christian 
Matheson,  & others;  Show-by-Show  #15.  JULY:  Stories  by  Robert 
Silverberg,  Joan  Aiken,  &.  Joe  Lansdale;  Stephen  King  on  films,  Thomas 
Disch  on  books;  Robertson  E'avies  interview  & story;  Ghostly  Britain 
photos;  preview  of  The  Thing;  Serling’s  100  Yards  Over  the  Rim;  making 
The  Last  Horror  Film;  Show-by-Show  #16.  AUGUST:  Poe  & Robert 


Bloch  together  in  The  Lighthouse;  Douglas  Heye^,  TZ  director,  inter- 
viewed; funhouse  photo-tour;  7 new  stories;  a look  at  Tron,  Poltergeist, 
and  E.T.;  Serling’s  The  Trade-Ins;  Show-by-Show  #17.  SEPTEMBER: 
Long-lost  Serling  radio  script;  previews  of  Creepshow  and  Something  Wick- 
ed; Paul  Schrader  interview;  special  Arthur  Machen  section;  7 new  tales; 
new  horror  quiz;  Show-by-Show  #18.  OCTOBER:  Nicholas  Meyer  inter- 
view on  Star  Trek;  Ireland’s  ghostly  mansions;  tales  by  Avram  Davidson 
and  Robert  Sheckley;  Serling’s  In  Praise  of  Pip;  Show-by-Show  #19. 
DECEMBER:  Living  Doll,  Charles  Beaumont’s  TZ  classic;  Ridley  Scott 
interview;  L.  P.  Hartley  profile;  Xtro  preview;  8 new  stories;  Show-by- 
Show  #21.  MARCH'APRIL  ’83:  Contest  prizewinners;  Serling’s  own 
Twilight  Zone  movie;  Colin  VC^ilson  inteiwiew;  The  Hunger  preview; 
TZ  script  &.  story  by  Richard  Matheson;  Show-by-Show  #23.  JULY- 
AUGUST:  Special  supernatural  cat  issue;  7 new  stories;  Brainstorm 
preview;  H.  P.  Lovecraft  interview;  Serling’s  Five  Characters  in  Search  of 
an  Exit;  Show-by-Show  #25.  SEPT.-OCX:  Special  Section,  Twilight 
Zone— The  Movie;  4 new  tales;  Fantasy  Acrostic  #2;  Johnson’s  Kick  the 
Can;  final  Show-by-Show  Guide  to  tv’s  Twilight  Zone.  NOV.-DEC.:  Stories 
by  Thomas  M.  Disch,  Ramsey  Campbell,  and  6 others;  classic  vignette  by 
Fredric  Brown;  behind  the  scenes  at  The  Outer  Limits;  David  Cronenberg 
interview;  previews  of  Iceman  and^T/ie  Dead  Zone;  Serling’s  It’s  A Good 
Life.  JAN.-FEB.  ’84:  Special  issue  featuring  1984  TZ  pull-out  calendar; 
Isaac  Bashevis  Singer  profile  & interview;  fiction  by  Singer,  John 
Carpenter,  and  4 others;  Christine  preview;  a chat  with  Stephen  King; 
critical  survey  of  1983’s  fantasy  films;  Serling’s  Mirror  Itruige;  Outer  Limits 
Show-by-Show  #1.  MARCH-APRIL:  Contest  prizewinners;  new  fiction 
by  Richard  Matheson,  Lee  Duigon,  Jack  C.  Haldeman  II,  and  others; 
Burgess  Meredith  interview;  Dreamscape  preview;  Twilight  Zone  trivia 
quiz;  Serling’s  Mr.  Dingle,  The  Strong;  Outer  Limits  Show-by-Show  #2. 


1 


Send  for  your  back  issues 
now,  while  they’re  still  available. 
(Issues  not  listed  are  no  longer  in  stock.) 


MAIL  TO:  TZ  Publications,  Back  Issues  Dept.,  P.O.  Box  252 
Mt.  Morris,  IL  61054-0252 

Please  send  me  the  following  back  Issues  of  Rod  Serling’s  THE  TWILIOHT 
ZONE  Magazine  at  $3.00  each,  and  the  following  number  of  binders  at 
the  price  Indicated.  I enclose  a check  or  money  order  made  out  to  TZ 
Publications,  Inc. 


QUANTITY 

QUANTITY 

JULY  '81 

SEPT.  '82 

Rock  Issues  @ $3  each 

SEPT. 

OCT. 

8lnders  @ $7.95  each 

NOV. 

DEC. 

Binders  @ $5.95  each 

DEC.  

APRIL  '83 

(with  6 back  Issues) 

JAN. '82  

AUG. 

Postage  and  handling 

MAR. 

OCT. 

@ $2  for  each  binder 

JUNE 

DEC. 

NY  state  residents 

JULY 

FEE.  '84 

add  8'/.%  sales  tax 

AUG. 

APRIL  

(for  binders  only) 

r 

TOTAL  ENCLOSED 

NAME 


ADDRESS 

CITY 

STATE ZIP. 


Twilight  Zone  71 


THERE  WERE  THINGS  UP  THERE  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN— HAIRY  THINGS  WITH 
ALMOST-HUMAN  FACES.  AND  WHEN  WINTER  CAME,  THEY  GREW  HUNGRY 


4 


For  the  past  ten  days  Alhubel  had  basked  in 
the  radiant  mid-winter  weather  proper  to  its 
eminence  of  over  6,000  feet.  From  rising  to 
setting  the  sun  (so  surprising  to  those  who  have 
hitherto  associated  it  with  a pale,  tepid  plate 
indistinctly  shining  through  the  murky  air  of 
England)  had  blazed  its  way  across  the  sparkling 
blue,  and  every  night  the  serene  and  windless  frost 
had  made  the  stars  sparkle  like  illuminated  diamond 
dust.  Sufficient  snow  had  fallen  before  Christmas  to 
content  the  skiers,  and  the  big  rink,  sprinkled  every 
morning,  had  given  the  skaters  each  morning  a fresh 
surface  on  which  to  perform  their  slippery  antics. 
Bridge  and  dancing  served  to  while  away  the  greater 
part  of  the  night,  and  to  me,  now  for  the  first  time 
tasting  the  joys  of  a winter  in  the  Engadine,  it 
seemed  that  a new  heaven  and  a new  earth  had  been 
lighted,  warmed  and  refrigerated  for  the  special 
benefit  of  those  who  like  myself  had  been  wise 
enough  to  save  up  their  days  of  holiday  for  winter. 

But  a break  came  in  these  ideal  conditions: 
one  afternoon  the  sun  grew  vapour-veiled  and  up 
the  valley  from  the  north-west  a wind  frozen  with 
miles  of  travel  over  ice-bound  hillsides  began  scout- 
ing through  the  calm  halls  of  the  heavens.  Soon  it 
grew  dusted  with  snow,  first  in  small  flakes  driven 
almost  horizontally  before  its  congealing  breath  and 
then  in  larger  tufts  as  of  swansdown.  And  though  all 
day  for  a fortnight  before  the  fate  of  nations  and  life 


and  death  had  seemed  to  me  of  far  less  importance 
than  to  get  certain  tracings  of  thi;  skate-blades  on  the 
ice  of  proper  shape  and  size,  it  now  seemed  that  the 
one  paramount  consideration  was  to  hurry  back  to 
the  hotel  for  shelter;  it  was  wiser  to  leave  rocking- 
turns  alone  than  to  be  frozen  in  their  quest. 

I had  come  out  here  with  my  cousin.  Pro- 
fessor Ingram,  the  celebrated  phj^siologist  and  Alpine 
climber.  During  the  serenity  of  the  last  fortnight  he 
had  made  a couple  of  notable  winter  ascents,  but 
this  morning  his  weather- wisdom  had  mistrusted  the 
signs  of  the  heavens,  and  instesid  of  attempting  the 
ascent  of  the  Piz  Passug  he  had  waited  to  see 
whether  his  misgivings  justified  themselves.  So  there 
he  sat  now  in  the  hall  of  the  admirable  hotel  with 
his  feet  on  the  hot-water  pipes  and  the  latest  delivery 
of  the  English  post  in  his  hands.  This  contained  a 
pamphlet  concerning  the  result  of  the  Mount  Everest 
expedition,  of  which  he  had  just  finished  the  perusal 
when  I entered. 

"A  very  interesting  report,"  he  said,  passing  it 
to  me,  "and  they  certainly  deserve  to  succeed  next 
year.  But  who  can  tell  what  that  final  six  thousand 
feet  may  entail?  Six  thousand  leet  more  when  you 
have  already  accomplished  twenty-three  thousand 
does  not  seem  much,  but  at  present  no  one  knows 
whether  the  human  frame  can  stand  exertion  at  such 
a height.  It  may  affect  not  the  lungs  and  heart  only, 
but  possibly  the  brain.  Delirious  hallucinations  may 


72  Twilight  Zone 


by  E.  F.  Benson 


occur.  In  fact,  if  I did  not  know  better,  I should 
liave  said  that  one  such  hallucination  had  occurred 
to  the  climbers  already." 

"And  what  was  that?"  I asked. 

"You  will  find  that  they  thought  they  came 
across  the  tracks  of  some  naked  human  foot  at  a 
great  altitude.  That  looks  at  first  sight  like  an 
hallucination.  What  more  natural  than  that  a brain 
excited  and  exhilarated  by  the  extreme  height  should 
have  interpreted  certain  marks  in  the  snow  as  the 
footprints  of  a human  being?  Every  bodily  organ  at 
these  altitudes  is  exerting  itself  to  the  utmost  to  do 
its  work,  and  the  brain  seizes  on  those  marks  in  the 
snow  and  says  'Yes,  I'm  all  right.  I'm  doing  my  job, 
and  I perceive  marks  in  the  snow  which  I affirm  are 
human  footprints.'  You  know,  even  at  this  altitude, 
how  restless  and  eager  the  brain  is,  how  vividly,  as 
you  told  me,  you  dreiam  at  night.  Multiply  that 
stimulus  and  that  consequent  eagerness  and  restless- 
ness by  three,  and  how  natural  that  the  brain  should 
harbour  illusions!  Wh.it  after  all  is  the  delirium 
which  often  accompanies  high  fever  but  the  effort  of 
the  brain  to  do  its  work  under  the  pressure  of  fever- 
ish conditions?  It  is  so  eager  to  continue  perceiving 
that  it  perceives  things  which  have  no  existence!" 

"And  yet  you  con't  think  that  these  naked 
human  footprints  were  illusions,"  said  I.  "You  told 
me  you  would  have  thought  so,  if  you  had  not 
known  better." 


I 


Twilight  Zone  73 


Illustrations  by  Bruce  Waldman 


THE  HOMUX  HORN 


He  shifted  in  his  chair  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  a moment.  The  air  was  thick  now  with  the 
density  of  the  big  snow-flakes  that  were  driven  along 
by  the  squealing  north-west  gale. 

"Quite  so,"  he  said.  "In  all  probability  the 
human  footprints  were  real  human  footprints.  I 
expect  that  they  were  the  footprints,  anyhow,  of  a 
being  more  nearly  a man  than  anything  else.  My 
reason  for  saying  so  is  that  I know  such  beings  exist. 

I have  even  seen  quite  near  at  hand — and  I assure 
you  I did  not  wish  to  be  nearer  in  spite  of  my 
intense  curiosity — the  creature,  shall  we  say,  which 
would  make  such  footprints.  And  if  the  snow  was 
not  so  dense,  I could  show  you  the  place  where  I 
saw  him." 

He  pointed  straight  out  of  the  window,  where 
across  the  valley  lies  the  huge  tower  of  the  Unge- 
heuerhorn  with  the  carved  pinnacle  of  rock  at  the 
top  like  some  gigantic  rhinoceros-horn.  On  one  side 
only,  as  I knew,  was  the  mountain  practicable,  and 
that  for  none  but  the  finest  climbers;  on  the  other 
three  a succession  of  ledges  and  precipices  rendered 
it  unscalable.  Two  thousand  feet  of  sheer  rock  form 
the  tower;  below  are  five  hundred  feet  of  fallen 
boulders,  up  to  the  edge  of  which  grow  dense  woods 
of  larch  and  pine. 

"Upon  the  Ungeheuerhorn?"  Tasked. 

"Yes.  Up  till  twenty  years  ago  it  had  never 
been  ascended,  and  I,  like  several  others,  spent  a lot 
of  time  in  trying  to  find  a route  up  it.  My  guide  and 
I sometimes  spent  three  nights  together  at  the  hut  be- 
side the  Blumen  glacier,  prowling  round  it,  and  it 
was  by  luck  really  that  we  found  the  route,  for  the 
mountain  looks  even  more  impracticable  from  the 
far  side  than  it  does  from  this.  But  one  day  we 
found  a long,  transverse  fissure  in  the  side  which  led 
to  a negotiable  ledge;  then  there  came  a slanting  ice 
couloir  which  you  could  not  see  till  you  got  to  the 
foot  of  it.  However,  I need  not  go  into  that." 

The  big  room  where  we  sat  was  filling  up 
with  cheerful  groups  driven  indoors  by  this  sudden 
gale  and  snowfall,  and  the  cackle  of  merry  tongues 
grew  loud.  The  band,  too,  that  invariable  appanage 
of  tea-time  at  Swiss  resorts,  had  begun  to  tune  up 
for  the  usual  potpourri  from  the  works  of  Puccini. 
Next  moment  the  sugary,  sentimental  melodies 
began. 

"Strange  contrast!"  said  Ingram.  "Here  are  we 
sitting  warm  and  cosy,  our  ears  pleasantly  tickled 
with  these  little  baby  tunes  and  outside  is  the  great 
storm  growing  more  violent  every  moment,  and 
swirling  round  the  austere  cliffs  of  the  Ungeheuer- 
horn: the  Horror  Horn,  as  indeed  it  was  to  me." 

"I  want  to  hear  all  about  it,"  I said.  "Every 
detail:  make  a short  story  long,  if  it's  short.  I want 
to  know  why  it's  your  Horror  Horn." 

"Well,  Chanton  and  I (he  was  my  guide)  used 
to  spend  days  prowling  about  the  cliffs,  making  a 
little  progress  on  one  side  and  then  being  stopped. 


Had  the  creature  been 
an  animal,  one  would 
have  felt  scarcely  a 
shudder.  The  horror 
lay  in  the  fact  that  it 
was  a man. 


and  gaining  perhaps  five  hundred  feet  on  another 
side  and  then  being  confronted  by  some  insuperable 
obstacle,  till  the  day  when  by  luck  we  found  the 
route.  Chanton  never  liked  the  job,  for  some  reason 
that  I could  not  fathom.  It  wc.s  not  because  of  the 
difficulty  or  danger  of  the  climbing,  for  he  was  the 
most  fearless  man  I have  ever  met  when  dealing  with 
rocks  and  ice,  but  he  was  always  insistent  that  we 
should  get  off  the  mountain  and  back  to  the  Blumen 
hut  before  sunset.  He  was  scaicely  easy  even  when 
we  had  got  back  to  shelter  and  locked  and  barred 
the  door,  and  I well  remembei*  one  night  when,  as 
we  ate  our  supper,  we  heard  some  animal,  a wolf 
probably,  howling  somewhere  out  in  the  night.  A 
positive  panic  seized  him,  and  1 don't  think  he  closed 
his  eyes  till  morning.  It  struck  me  then  that  there 
might  be  some  grisly  legend  about  the  mountain, 
connected  possibly  with  its  name,  and  next  day  1 
asked  him  why  the  peak  was  called  the  Horror  Horn. 
He  put  the  question  off  at  first,  and  said  that,  like 
Schreckhorn,  its  name  was  due:  to  its  precipices  and 
falling  stones;  but  when  I pressed  him  further  he  ac- 
knowledged that  there  was  a legend  about  it,  which 
his  father  had  told  him.  There  were  creatures,  so  it 
was  supposed,  that  lived  in  its  caves,  things  human 
in  shape,  and  covered,  excejat  for  the  face  and 
hands,  with  long  black  hair.  They  were  dwarfs  in 
size,  four  feet  high  or  thereabouts,  but  of  prodigious 
strength  and  agility,  remnants  of  some  wild  primeval 
race.  It  seemed  that  they  were  still  in  an  upward 
stage  of  evolution,  or  so  I guessed,  for  the  story  ran 
that  sometimes  girls  had  been  carried  off  by  them, 
not  as  prey,  and  not  for  any  such  fate  as  for  those 
captured  by  cannibals,  but  to  be  bred  from.  Young 
men  also  had  been  raped  by  them,  to  be  mated  with 
the  females  of  their  tribe.  All  this  looked  as  if  the 
creatures,  as  I said,  were  tending  towards  humanity. 
But  naturally  I did  not  believe  a word  of  it,  as 
applied  to  the  conditions  of  the  present  day. 
Centuries  ago,  conceivably,  there  may  have  been 


74  Twilight  Zone 


such  beings,  and,  with  the  extraordinary  tenacity  of 
tradition,  the  news  of  this  had  been  handed  down 
and  was  still  current  round  the  hearths  of  the 
peasants.  As  for  their  numbers,  Chanton  told  me 
that  three  had  been  once  seen  together  by  a man 
who  owing  to  his  swiftness  on  skis  had  escaped  to 
tell  the  tale.  This  man,  he  averred,  was  no  other 
than  his  grandfather,  who  had  been  benighted  one 
winter  evening  as  he  passed  through  the  dense 
woods  below  the  U ngeheuerhorn,  and  Chanton 
supposed  that  they  had  been  driven  down  to  these 
lower  altitudes  in  search  of  food  during  severe 
winter  weather,  for  otherwise  the  recorded  sights  of 
them  had  always  taker,  place  among  the  rocks  of  the 
peak  itself.  They  had  pursued  his  grandfather,  then 
a young  man,  at  an  extraordinarily  swift  canter, 
running  sometimes  upright  as  men  run,  sometimes 
on  all-fours  in  the  mariner  of  beasts,  and  their  howls 
were  just  such  as  that  we  had  heard  that  night  in  the 
Blumen  hut.  Such  at  any  rate  was  the  story  Chanton 
told  me,  and,  like  you,  I regarded  it  as  the  very 
moonshine  of  superstii:ion.  But  the  very  next  day  I 
had  reason  to  reconsider  my  judgement  about  it. 

“It  was  on  that  day  that  after  a week  of  ex- 
ploration we  hit  on  the  only  route  at  present  known 
to  the  top  of  our  peak.  We  started  as  soon  as  there 
was  light  enough  to  climb  by,  for,  as  you  may  guess, 
on  very  difficult  rocks  it  is  impossible  to  climb  by 
lantern  or  moonlight.  We  hit  on  the  long  fissure  I 
have  spoken  of,  we  explored  the  ledge  which  from 
below  seemed  to  end  in  nothingness,  and  with  an 
hour's  step-cutting  ascended  the  couloir  which  led 
upwards  from  it.  From  there  onwards  it  was  a rock- 
climb,  certainly  of  considerable  difficulty,  but  with 
no  heart-breaking  discoveries  ahead,  and  it  was 
about  nine  in  the  morning  that  we  stood  on  the  top. 
We  did  not  wait  there  long,  for  that  side  of  the 
mountain  is  raked  by  falling  stones  loosened,  when 
the  sun  grows  hot,  from  the  ice  that  holds  them,  and 
we  made  haste  to  pass  the  ledge  where  the  falls  are 


most  frequent.  After  that  there  was  the  long  fissure 
to  descend,  a matter  of  no  great  difficulty,  and  we 
were  at  the  end  of  our  work  by  midday,  both  of  us, 
as  you  may  imagine,  in  the  state  of  the  highest 
elation. 

"A  long  and  tiresome  scramble  among  the 
huge  boulders  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff  then  lay  before 
us.  Here  the  hill-side  is  very  porous  and  great  caves 
extend  far  into  the  mountain.  We  had  unroped  at  the 
base  of  the  fissure,  and  were  picking  our  way  as 
seemed  good  to  either  of  us  among  these  fallen 
rocks,  many  of  them  bigger  than  an  ordinary  house, 
when,  on  coming  round  the  corner  of  one  of  these,  I 
saw  that  which  made  it  clear  that  the  stories 
Chanton  had  told  me  were  no  figment  of  traditional 
superstition. 

"Not  twenty  yards  in  front  of  me  lay  one  of 
the  beings  of  which  he  had  spoken.  There  it 
sprawled  naked  and  basking  on  its  back  with  face 
turned  up  to  the  sun,  which  its  narrow  eyes  regarded 
unwinking.  In  form  it  was  completely  human,  but 
the  growth  of  hair  that  covered  limbs  and  trunk 
alike  almost  completely  hid  the  sun- tanned  skin 
beneath.  But  its  face,  save  for  the  down  on  its 
cheeks  and  chin,  was  hairless,  and  I looked  on  a 
countenance  the  sensual  and  malevolent  bestiality  of 
which  froze  me  with  horror.  Had  the  creature  been 
an  animal,  one  would  have  felt  scarcely  a shudder  at 
the  gross  animalism  of  it;  the  horror  lay  in  the  fact 
that  it  was  a man.  There  lay  by  it  a couple  of 
gnawed  bones,  and,  its  meal  finished,  it  was  lazily 
licking  its  protuberant  Bps,  from  which  came  a 
purring  murmur  of  content.  With  one  hand  it 
scratched  the  thick  hair  on  its  belly,  in  the  other  it 
held  one  of  these  bones,  which  presently  split  in  half 
beneath  the  pressure  of  its  finger  and  thumb.  But  my 
horror  was  not  based  on  the  information  of  what 
happened  to  those  men  whom  these  creatures 
caught,  it  was  due  only  to  my  proximity  to  a thing 
so  human  and  so  infernal.  The  peak,  of  which  the 
ascent  had  a moment  ago  filled  us  with  such  elated 
satisfaction,  became  to  me  an  Ungeheuerhorn 
indeed,  for  it  was  the  home  of  beings  more  awful 
than  the  delirium  of  nightmare  could  ever  have 
conceived. 

"Chanton  was  a dozen  paces  behind  me,  and 
with  a backward  wave  of  my  hand  I caused  him  to 
halt.  Then  withdrawing  myself  with  infinite  pre- 
caution, so  as  not  to  attract  the  gaze  of  that  basking 
creature,  I slipped  back  round  the  rock,  whispered 
to  him  what  I had  seen,  and  with  blanched  faces  we 
made  a long  detour,  peering  round  every  corner, 
and  crouching  low,  not  knowing  that  at  any  step  we 
might  not  come  upon  another  of  these  beings,  or 
that  from  the  moiith  of  one  of  these  caves  in  the 
mountain-side  there  might  not  appear  another  of 
those  hairless  and  dreadful  faces,  with  perhaps  this 
time  the  breasts  and  insignia  of  womanhood.  That 
would  have  been  the  worst  of  all. 

.1 


Twilight  Zone  75 


THEHOMIMinm 


"Luck  favoured  us,  for  we  inade  our  way 
among  the  boulders  and  shifting  stones,  the  rattle  of 
which  might  at  any  moment  have  betrayed  us,  with- 
out a repetition  of  my  experience,  and  once  among 
the  trees  we  ran  as  if  the  Furies  themselves  were  in 
pursuit.  Well  now  did  I understand,  though  I dare 
say  I cannot  convey,  the  qualms  of  Chandon's  mind 
when  he  spoke  to  me  of  these  creatures.  Their  very 
humanity  was  what  made  them  so  terrible,  the  fact 
that  they  were  of  the  same  race  as  ourselves,  but  of 
a type  so  abysmally  degraded  that  the  most  brutal 
and  inhuman  of  men  would  have  seemed  angelic  in 
comparison." 

The  music  of  the  small  band  was  over  before 
he  had  finished  the  narrative,  and  the  chattering 
groups  round  the  tea-table  had  dispersed.  He  paused 
a moment. 

"There  was  a horror  of  the  spirit,"  he  said, 
"which  I experienced  then,  from  which,  I verily  be- 
lieve, I have  never  entirely  recovered.  I saw  then 
how  terrible  a living  thing  could  be,  and  how  terri- 
ble, in  consequence,  was  life  itself.  In  us  all  I sup- 
pose lurks  some  inherited  germ  of  that  ineffable  bes- 
tiality,  and  who  knows  whether,  sterile  as  it  has  ap- 
parently become  in  the  course  of  centuries,  it  might 
not  fructify  again.  When  I saw  that  creature  sun  it- 
self, I looked  into  the  abyss  out  of  which  we  have 
crawled.  And  these  creatures  are  trying  to  crawl  out 
of  it  now,  if  they  exist  any  longer.  Certainly  for  the 
last  twenty  years  there  has  been  no  record  of  their 
being  seen,  until  we  come  to  this  story  of  the  foot- 
print seen  by  the  climbers  on  Everest.  If  that  is  au- 
thentic, if  the  party  did  not  mistake  the  footprint  of 
some  bear,  or  what  not,  for  a human  tread,  it  seems 
as  if  still  this  bestranded  remnant  of  mankind  is  in 
existence." 

Now,  Ingram  had  told  his  story  well;  but  sit- 
ting in  this  warm  and  civilized  room,  the  horror 
which  he  had  clearly  felt  had  not  communicated  it- 
self to  me  in  any  very  vivid  manner.  Intellectually,  I 
agreed,  I could  appreciate  his  horror,  but  certainly 
my  spirit  felt  no  shudder  of  interior  comprehension. 

"But  it  is  odd,"  I said,  "that  your  keen  inter- 
est in  physiology  did  not  disperse  your  qualms.  You 
were  looking,  so  I take  it,  at  some  form  of  man 
more  remote  probably  than  the  earliest  human  re- 
mains. Did  not  something  inside  you  say  'This  is  of 
absorbing  significance'?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No:  I only  wanted  to  get  away,"  said  he.  "It 
was  not,  as  I have  told  you,  the  terror  of  what,  ac- 
cording to  Chanton's  story,  might  await  us  if  we 
were  captured;  it  was  sheer  horror  at  the  creature  it- 
self. I quaked  at  it." 

The  snowstorm  and  the  gale  increased  in 
violence  that  night,  and  I slept  uneasily, 
plucked  again  and  again  from  slumber  by  the 
fierce  battling  of  the  wind  that  shook  my  windows 


I saw  then 
how  terri’ble 
a living  thing 
could  be, 
and  how  terrible, 
in  consequence, 
was  life  itself. 


as  if  with  an  imperious  demand  for  admittance.  It 
came  in  billowy  gusts,  with  strange  noises  inter- 
mingled with  it  as  for  a moment:  it  abated,  with  flut- 
ings  and  moanings  that  rose  to  shrieks  as  the  fury  of 
it  returned.  These  noises,  no  doubt,  mingled  them- 
selves with  my  drowsed  and  sleepy  consciousness, 
and  once  I tore  myself  out  of  nightmare,  imagining 
that  the  creatures  of  the  Horror  Horn  had  gained 
footing  on  my  balcony  and  were  rattling  at  the 
window-bolts.  But  before  morning  the  gale  had  died 
away,  and  I awoke  to  see  the  snow  falling  dense  and 
fast  in  a windless  air.  For  three  days  it  continued, 
without  intermission,  and  witli  its  cessation  there 
came  a frost  such  as  I have  never  felt  before.  Fifty 
degrees  were  registered  one  right,  and  more  the 
next,  and  what  the  cold  must  have  been  on  the  cliffs 
of  the  Ungeheuerhorn  I cannot;  imagine.  Sufficient, 
so  I thought,  to  have  made  an  end  altogether  of  its 
secret  inhabitants;  my  cousin,  on  that  day  twenty 
years  ago,  had  missed  an  opportunity  to  study 
which  would  probably  never  fall  again  either  to  him 
or  another. 

I received  one  morning  a letter  from  a friend 
saying  that  he  had  arrived  at  the  neighbouring 
winter  resort  of  St.  Luigi,  and  proposing  that  I 
should  come  over  for  a morning's  skating  and  lunch 
afterwards.  The  place  was  riot  more  than  a couple  of 
miles  off,  if  one  took  the  path,  over  the  low,  pine- 
clad  fqot-hills  above  which  lay  the  steep  woods  be- 
low the  first  rocky  slopes  of  tht:  Ungeheuerhorn;  and 
accordingly,  with  a knapsack  containing  skates  on 
my  back,  I went  on  skis  over  the  wooded  slopes  and 
down  by  an  easy  descent  again  on  to  St.  Luigi.  The 
day  was  overcast,  clouds  entirely  obscured  the 
higher  peaks  though  the  sun  was  visible,  pale  and 
unluminous,  through  the  mists.  But  as  the  morning 
went  on,  it  gained  the  upper  hand,  and  I slid  down 


76  Twilight  Zone 


into  St.  Luigi  beneath  a sparkling  firmament.  We 
skated  and  lunched,  and  then,  since  it  looked  as  if 
thick  weather  was  coming  up  again,  I set  out  early 
about  three  o'clock  for  my  return  journey. 

Hardly  had  I got  into  the  woods  when  the 
clouds  gathered  thick  above,  and  streamers  and 
skeins  of  them  began  to  descend  among  the  pines 
through  which  my  path  threaded  its  way.  In  ten 
minutes  more  their  opaicity  had  so  increased  that  I 
could  hardly  see  a couple  of  yards  in  front  of  me. 
Very  soon  I became  aware  that  I must  have  got  off 
the  path,  for  snow-cowled  shrubs  lay  directly  in  my 
way,  and,  casting  back  to  find  it  again,  I got  alto- 
gether confused  as  to  direction.  But,  though  progress 
was  difficult,  I knew  1 had  only  to  keep  on  the 
ascent,  and  presently  I should  come  to  the  brow  of 
these  low  foot-hills,  £ind  descend  into  the  open 
valley  where  Alhubel  stood.  So  on  I went,  stumbling 
and  sliding  over  obstacles,  and  unable,  owing  to  the 
thickness  of  the  snow,  to  take  off  my  skis,  for  I 
should  have  sunk  over  the  knees  at  each  step.  Still 
the  ascent  continued,  ar  d looking  at  my  watch  I saw 
that  I had  already  been  near  an  hour  on  my  way 
from  St.  Luigi,  a period  more  than  sufficient  to  com- 
plete my  whole  journey.  But  still  I stuck  to  my  idea 
that  though  I had  certainly  strayed  far  from  my 
proper  route  a few  minutes  more  must  surely  see  me 
over  the  top  of  the  up^vard  way,  and  I should  find 
the  ground  declining  into  the  next  valley.  About 
now,  too,  I noticed  thal:  the  mists  were  growing  suf- 
fused with  rose-colour,  and,  though  the  inference 
was  that  it  must  be  doss  on  sunset,  there  was  conso- 
lation in  the  fact  that  they  were  there  and  might  lift 
at  any  moment  and  disclose  to  me  my  whereabouts. 
But  the  fact  that  night  v/ould  soon  be  on  me  made  it 
needful  to  bar  my  mind  against  that  despair  of  lone- 
liness which  so  eats  out  the  heart  of  a man  who  is 
lost  in  woods  or  on  mountain-side,  that,  though  still 


there  is  plenty  of  vigour  in  his  limbs,  his  nervous 
force  is  sapped,  and  he  can  do  no  more  than  lie 
down  and  abandon  himself  to  whatever  fate  may 
await  him.  . . . And  then  I heard  that  which  made 
the  thought  of  loneliness  seem  bliss  indeed,  for  there 
was  a worse  fate  than  loneliness.  What  I heard  re- 
sembled the  howl  of  a wolf,  and  it  came  from  not 
far  in  front  of  me  where  the  ridge — was  it  a ridge? 
— still  rose  higher  in  vestment  of  pines. 

From  behind  me  came  a sudden  puff  of  wind, 
which  shook  the  frozen  snow  from  the  drooping  pine- 
branches,  and  swept  away  the  mists  as  a broom 
sweeps  the  dust  from  the  floor.  Radiant  above  me 
were  the  unclouded  skies,  already  charged  with  the 
red  of  the  sunset,  and  in  front  I saw  that  I had  come  to 
the  very  edge  of  the  wood  through  which  I had  wan- 
dered so  long.  But  it  was  no  valley  into  which  I had 
penetrated,  for  there  right  ahead  of  me  rose  the  steep 
slope  of  boulders  and  rocks  soaring  upwards  to  the 
foot  of  the  Ungeheuerhorn.  What,  then,  was  that  cry 
of  a wolf  which  had  made  my  heart  stand  still?  I saw. 

Not  twenty  yards  from  me  was  a fallen  tree, 
and  leaning  against  the  trunk  of  it  was  one  of  the 
denizens  of  the  Horror  Horn,  and  it  was  a woman. 
She  was  enveloped  in  a thick  growth  of  hair  grey 
and  tufted,  and  from  her  head  it  streamed  down 
over  her  shoulders  and  her  bosom,  from  which  hung 
withered  and  pendulous  breasts.  And  looking  on  her 
face  I comprehended  not  with  my  mind  alone,  but 
with  a shudder  of  my  spirit,  what  Ingram  had  felt. 
Never  had  nightmare  fashioned  so  terrible  a coun- 
tenance; the  beauty  of  aun  and  stars  and  of  the 
beasts  of  the  field  and  the  kindly  race  of  men  could 
not  atone  for  so  hellish  an  incarnation  of  the  spirit 
of  life.  A fathomless  bestiality  modelled  the  slavering 
mouth  and  the  narrow  eyes;  I looked  into  the  abyss 
itself  and  knew  that  out  of  that  abyss  on  the  edge  of 
which  I leaned  the  generations  of  men  had  climbed. 
What  if  that  ledge  crumbled  in  front  of  me  and 
pitched  me  headlong  into  its  nethermost  depths?  . . . 

In  one  hand  she  held  by  the  horns  a chamois 
that  kicked  and  struggled.  A blow  from  its  hindleg 
caught  her  withered  thigh,  and  with  a grunt  of  anger 
she  seized  the  leg  in  her  other  hand,  and,  as  a man 
may  pull  from  its  sheath  a stem  of  meadow-grass, 
she  plucked  it  off  the  body,  leaving  the  torn  skin 
hanging  round  the  gaping  wound.  Then  putting  the 
red,  bleeding  member  to  her  mouth  she  sucked  at  it 
as  a child  sucks  a stick  of  sweetmeat.  Through  flesh 
and  gristle  her  short,  brown  teeth  penetrated,  and 
she  licked  her  lips  with  a sound  of  purring.  Then 
dropping  the  leg  by  her  side,  she  looked  again  at  the 
body  of  the  prey  now  quivering  in  its  death-convul- 
sion, and  with  finger  and  thumb  gouged  out  one  of 
its  eyes.  She  snapped  her  teeth  on  it,  and  it  cracked 
like  a soft-shelled  nut. 

It  must  have  been  but  a few  seconds  that  I 
stood  watching  her,  in  some  indescribable  catalepsy 
of  terror,  while  through  my  brain  there  pealed  the 

t 


Twilight  Zone  77 


THE  Homoil  HOm 


panic-command  of  my  mind  to  my;  stricken  limbs, 
"Begone,  begone,  while  there  is  time."  Then,  recov- 
ering the  power  of  my  joints  and  muscles,  I tried  to 
slip  behind  a tree  and  hide  myself  from  this  appari- 
tion, but  the  woman — shall  we  say? — must  have 
caught  my  stir  of  movement,  for  she  raised  her  eyes 
from  her  living  feast  and  saw  me.  She  craned  for- 
ward her  neck,  she  dropped  her  prey,  and  half  rising 
began  to  move  towards  me.  As  she  did  this,  she 
opened  her  mouth,  and  gave  forth  a howl  such  as  I 
had  heard  a moment  before.  It  was  answered  by 
another,  but  faintly  and  distantly. 

Sliding  and  slipping,  with  the  toes  of  my  skis 
tripping  in  the  obstacles  below  the  snow,  I plunged 
forward  down  the  hill  between  the  pine-trunks.  The 
low  sun  already  sinking  behind  some  rampart  of 
mountain  in  the  west  reddened  the  snow  and  the 
pines  with  its  ultimate  rays.  My  knapsack  with  the 
skates  in  it  swung  to  and  fro  on  my  back,  one  ski- 
stick  had  already  been  twitched  out  of  my  hand  by  a 
fallen  branch  of  pine,  but  not  a second's  pause  could 
1 allow  myself  to  recover  it.  I gave  no  glance  behind, 
and  I knew  not  at  what  pace  my  pursuer  was  on  my 
track,  or  indeed  whether  any*  pursued  at  all,  for  my 
whole  mind  and  energy,  now  working  at  full  power 
again  under  the  stress  of  my  panic,  was  devoted  to 
getting  away  down  the  hill  and  out  of  the  wood  as 
swiftly  as  my  limbs  could  bear  me.  For  a little  while 
I heard  nothing  but  the  hissing  snow  of  my  head- 
long passage,  and  the  rustle  of  the  covered  under- 
growth beneath  my  feet,  and  then,  from  close  at 
hand  behind  me,  once  more  the  wolf-howl  sounded 
and  I heard  the  plunging  of  footsteps  other  than 
my  own. 

The  strap  of  my  knapsack  had  shifted,  and  as 
my  skates  swung  to  and  fro  on  my  back  it  chafed 
and  pressed  on  my  throat,  hindering  free  passage  of 
air,  of  which,  God  knew,  my  labouring  lungs  were 
in  dire  need,  and  without  pausing  I slipped  it  free 
from  my  neck,  and  held  it  in  the  hand  from  which 
my  ski-stick  had  been  jerked.  I seemed  to  go  a little 
more  easily  for  this  adjustment,  and  now,  not  so  far 
distant,  I could  see  below  me  the  path  from  which  I 
had  strayed.  If  only  I could  reach  that,  the  smoother 
going  would  surely  enable  me  to  out-distance  my 
pursuer,  who  even  on  the  rougher  ground  was  but 
slowly  overhauling  me,  and  at  the  sight  of  that  rib- 
and stretching  unimpeded  downhill,  a ray  of  hope 
pierced  the  black  panic  of  my  soul.  With  that  came 
the  desire,  keen  and  insistent,  to  see  who  or  what  it 
was  that  was  on  my  tracks,  and  I spared  a backward 
glance.  It  was  she,  the  hag  whom  I had  seen  at  her 
gruesome  meal;  her  long  grey  hair  flew  out  behind 
her,  her  mouth  chattered  and  gibbered,  her  fingers 
made  grabbing  movements,  as  if  already  they  closed 
on  me. 

But  the  path  was  now  at  hand,  and  the  near- 
ness of  it  I suppose  made  me  incautious.  A hump  of 
snow-covered  bush  lay  in  my  path,  and,  thinking  I 


could  jump  over  it,  I tripped  and  fell,  smothering 
myself  in  snow.  I heard  a maniac  noise,  half  scream, 
half  laugh,  from  close  behind,  and  before  1 could 
recover  myself  the  grabbing  fingers  were  at  my  neck, 
as  if  a steel  vice  had  closed  there.  But  my  right  hand 
in  which  I held  my  knapsack  of  skates  was  free,  and 
with  a blind  back-handed  movement  I whirled  it  be- 
hind me  at  the  full  length  of  its  strap,  and  knew  that 
my  desperate  blow  had  found  its  billet  somewhere. 
Even  before  I could  look  round  I felt  the  grip  on  my 
neck  relax,  and  something  subsided  into  the  very 
bush  which  had  entangled  me.  I recovered  my  feet 
and  turned. 

There  she  lay,  twitching  and  quivering.  The 
heel  of  one  of  my  skates  piercing  the  thin  alpaca  of 
the  knapsack  had  hit  her  full  on  the  temple,  from 
which  the  blood  was  pouring,  but  a hundred  yards 
away  I could  see  another  such  figure  coming  down- 
wards on  my  tracks,  leaping  and  bounding.  At  that 
panic  rose  again  within  me,  and  I sped  off  down  the 
white  smooth  path  that  led  to  the  lights  of  the  vil- 
lage already  beckoning.  Never  once  did  I pause  in 
my  headlong  going:  there  was  no  safety  until  I was 
back  among  the  haunts  of  men.  I flung  myself 
against  the  door  of  the  hotel,  and  screamed  for 
admittance,  though  I had  but  to  turn  the  handle  and 
enter;  and  once  more  as  when  Ingram  had  told  his 
tale,  there  was  the  sound  of  the  band,  and  the 
chatter  of  voices,  and  there,  loo,  was  he  himself, 
who  looked  up  and  then  rose  swiftly  to  his  feet  as  I 
made  my  clattering  entrance. 

"I  have  seen  them  too,"  I cried.  "Look  at  my 
knapsack.  Is  there  not  blood  or  it?  It  is  the  blood  of 
one  of  them,  a woman,  a hag,  who  tore  off  the  leg 
of  a chamois  as  I looked,  and  pursued  me  through 
the  accursed  wood.  I — " 

Whether  it  was  I who  spun  round,  or  the 
room  which  seemed  to  spin  me,  I knew  not,  but  I 
heard  myself  falling,  collapsed  on  the  floor,  and  the 
next  time  that  I was  conscious  at  all  I was  in  bed. 
There  was  Ingram  there,  who  told  me  that  I was 
quite  safe,  and  another  man,  a stranger,  who 
pricked  my  arm  with  the  nozzle  of  a syringe,  and  re- 
assured me. . . . 

A day  or  two  later  I ga^'e  a coherent  account 
of  my  adventure,  and  three  or  four  men,  armed  with 
guns,  went  over  my  traces.  They  found  the  bush  in 
which  I had  stumbled,  with  a pool  of  blood  which 
had  soaked  into  the  snow,  and,  still  following  my 
ski-tracks,  they  came  on  the  body  of  a chamois, 
from  which  had  been  torn  one  of  its  hindlegs  and 
one  eye-socket  was  empty.  That  is  all  the  corrobora- 
tion of  my  story  that  I can  give  the  reader,  and  for 
myself  I imagine  that  the  creature  which  pursued  me 
was  either  not  killed  by  my  blow  or  that  her  fellows 
removed  her  body ....  Anyhov/,  it  is  open  to  the  in- 
credulous to  prowl  about  the  caves  of  the  Unge- 
heuerhorn,  and  see  if  anything  occurs  that  may  con- 
vince them,  ffl 


78  Twilight  Zone 


THE  DEED  WAS  DONE,  AND  SOMETHING  HAD  DIED . . . 
BUT  SOMETHING  ELSE  HAD  AWAKENED. 


T^eMofclier 

V.  by  R.  H.  Benson 


One  morning, 
the  priest 
and  I went 
out  soon  after 
breakfast  and 
walked  up  and 
down  a grass  path 
between  two  yew 
hedges;  the  dew 
was  not  yet  off 
the  grass  that  lay 
in  shadow;  and 
thin  patches  of 
gossamer  still  hung 
like  torn  cambric 
on  the  yew  shoots 
on  either  side.  As 
we  passed  for  the 
second  time  up  the 
path,  the  old  man 
suddenly  stooped  and,  pushing  aside  a dock-leaf  at 
the  foot  of  the  hedge,  lifted  a dead  mouse,  and 
looked  at  it  as  it  lay  stiffly  on  the  palm  of  his  hand. 
I saw  that  his  eyes  filled  slowly  with  the  ready  tears 
of  old  age. 

"He  has  chosen  his  own  resting-place,"  he 
said.  "Let  him  lie  theie.  Why  did  I disturb  him?" — 
and  he  laid  him  gently  down  again;  and  then  gather- 
ing a fragment  of  wet  earth  he  sprinkled  it  over  the 
mouse.  "Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,"  he  said,  "in 
sure  and  certain  hope" — and  then  he  stopped;  and 
straightening  himself  with  difficulty  walked  on,  and 
I followed  him. 

"You  once  expressed  an  interest,"  he  said,  "in 
my  tales  of  the  vision  of  Nature  I have  seen.  Shall  I 
tell  you  how  once  I s,iw  a very  different  sight? 

"I  was  eighteen  years  old  at  the  time,  that  ter- 
rible age  when  the  soul  seems  to  have  dwindled  to  a 
spark  overlaid  by  a mountain  of  ashes — when  blood 
and  fire  and  death  and  loud  noises  seem  the  only 
things  of  interest,  and  all  tender  things  shrink  back 
and  hide  from  the  dreadful  noonday  of  manhood. 
Someone  gave  me  one  of  those  shot-pistols  that  you 
may  have  seen,  and  I loved  the  sense  of  power  that 
it  gave  me,  for  I had  never  had  a gun.  For  a week  or 
two  in  the  summer  holidays  I was  content  with 
shooting  at  a mark,  oi'  at  the  level  surface  of  water, 
and  delighted  to  see  the  cardboard  shattered,  or  the 
quiet  pool  torn  to  shreds  along  its  mirror  where  the 
sky  and  green  lay  sletping.  Then  that  ceased  to  in- 


terest me,  and  I 
longed  to  see  a 
living  thing 
suddenly  stop 
living  at  my  will. 
Now,"  and  he  held 
up  a deprecating 
hand,  "I  think  sport 
is  necessary  for 
some  natures.  After 
all,  the  killing 
of  creatures  is 
necessary  for  man's 
food,  and  sport  as 
you  will  tell. me  is  a 
survival  of  man's 
delight  in  obtaining 
food,  and  it 
requires  certain 
noble  qualities  of 
endurance  and  skill.  I know  all  that,  and  I know  fur- 
ther that  for  some  natures  it  is  a relief — an  escape  for 
humours  that  will  otherwise  find  an  evil  outlet.  But 
I do  know  this — that  for  me  it  was  not  necessary. 

"However,  there  was  every  excuse,  and  I 
went  out  in  good  faith  one  summer  evening,  intend- 
ing to  shoot  some  rabbits  as  they  ran  to  cover  from 
the  open  field.  I walked  along  the  inside  of  a fence 
with  a wood  above  me  and  on  my  left,  and  the 
green  meadow  on  my  right.  Well,  owing  probably  to 
my  own  lack  of  skill,  though  I could  hear  the  patter 
and  rush  of  the  rabbits  all  around  me,  and  could  see 
them  in  the  distance  sitting  up  listening  with  cocked 
ears,  as  I stole  along  the  fence,  I could  not  get  close 
enough  to  fire  at  them  with  any  hope  of  what  I 
fancied  was  success;  and  by  the  time  that  I had 
arrived  at  the  end  of  the  wood  I was  in  an  impatient 
mood. 

"I  stood  for  a moment  or  two  leaning  on  the 
fence  looking  out  of  that  pleasant  coolness  into  the 
open  meadow  beyond;  the  sun  had  at  that  moment 
dipped  behind  the  hill  before  me  and  all  was  in 
shadow  except  where  there  hung  a glory  about  the 
topmost  leaves  of  a beech  that  still  caught  the  sun. 
The  birds  were  beginning  to  come  in  from  the  fields, 
and  were  settling 'one  by  one  in  the  wood  behind 
me,  staying  here  and  there  to  sing  one  last  line  of 
melody.  I could  hear  the  quiet  rush  and  then  the 
sudden  clap  of  a pigeon's  wings  as  he  came  home, 
and  as  I listened  I heard  pealing  out  above  all  other 


f 


Twilight  Zone  79 


sounds  the  long  liquid  song  of  a thrush  somewhere 
above  me.  1 looked  up  idly  and  tried  to  see  the  bird, 
and  after  a moment  or  two  caught  sight  of  him  as 
the  leaves  of  the  beech  parted  in  the  breeze,  his  head 
lifted  and  his  whole  body  vibrating  with  the  joy  of 
life  and  music.  As  someone  has  said,  his  body  was 
one  beating  heart.  The  last  radiance  of  the  sun  over 
the  hill  reached  him  and  bathed  him  in  golden 
warmth.  Then  the  leaves  closed  again  as  the  breeze 
dropped,  but  still  his  song  rang  out. 

“Then  there  came  on  me  a blinding  desire  to 
kill  him.  All  the  other  creatures  had  mocked  me  and 
run  home.  Here  at  least  was  a victim,  and  I would 
pour  out  the  sullen  anger  that  had  been  gathering 
during  my  walk,  and  at  least  demand  this  one  life  as 
a substitute.  Side  by  side  with  this  1 remembered 
clearly  that  1 had  come  out  to  kill  for  food:  that  was 
my  one  justification.  Side  by  side  1 saw  both  these 
things,  and  1 had  no  excuse — no  excuse. 

"1  turned  my  head  every  way  and  moved  a 
step  or  two  back  to  catch  sight  of  him  again,  and, 
although  this  may  sound  fantastic  and  overwrought, 
in  my  whole  being  was  a struggle  between  light  and 
darkness,  Every  fibre  of  my  life  told  me  that  the 
thrush  had  a right  to  live.  Ah!  he  had  earned  it,  if 
labour  were  wanting,  by  this  very  song  that  was 
guiding  death  towards  him,  but  black  sullen  anger 
had  thrown  my  conscience,  and  was  now  struggling 
to  hold  it  down  till  the  shot  had  been  fired.  Still  1 
waited  for  the  breeze,  and  then  it  came,  cool  and 
sweet-smelling  like  the  breath  of  a garden,  and  the 
leaves  parted.  There  he  sang  in  the  sunshine,  and  in 
a moment  I lifted  the  pistol  and  drew  the  trigger. 

“With  the  crack  of  the  cap  came  silence  over- 
head, and  after  what  seemed  an  interminable  mo- 
ment came  the  soft  rush  of  something  falling  and 
the  faint  thud  among  last  year's  leaves.  All  seemed 
dim  and  misty.  My  eyes  were  still  a little  dazzled  by 
the  bright  background  of  sunlit  air  and  rosy  clouds 
on  which  I had  looked  with  such  intensity,  and  the 
space  beneath  the  branches  was  a world  of  shadows. 
Still  1 looked  a few  yards  away,  trying  to  make  out 
the  body  of  the  thrush,  and  fearing  to  hear  a 
struggle  of  beating  wings  among  the  dry  leaves. 

“And  then  1 lifted  my  eyes  a little,  vaguely.  A 
yard  or  two  beyond  where  the  thrush  lay  was  a rho- 
dodendron bush.  The  blossoms  had  fallen  and  the 
outline  of  dark,  heavy  leaves  was  unrelieved  by  the 
slightest  touch  of  colour.  As  1 looked  at  it,  I saw  a 
face  looking  down  from  the  higher  branches. 

“It  was  a perfectly  hairless  head  and  face,  the 
thin  lips  were  parted  in  a wide  smile  of  laughter, 
there  were  innumerable  lines  about  the  comers  of 
the  mouth,  and  the  eyes  were  surrounded  by  creases 
of  merriment.  What  was  perhaps  most  terrible  about 
it  all  was  that  the  eyes  were  not  looking  at  me,  but 
down  among  the  leaves;  the  heavy  eyelids  lay 
drooping,  and  the  long,  narrow,  shining  slits  showed 
how  the  eyes  laughed  beneath  them.  The  forehead 


sloped  quickly  back,  like  a cat's  head.  The  face  was 
the  colour  of  earth,  and  the  outlines  of  the  head 
faded  below  the  ears  and  chin  into  the  gloom  of  the 
dark  bush.  There  was  no  throat,  or  body  or  limbs  so 
far  as  I could  see.  The  face  just  hung  there  like  a 
down-turned  Eastern  mask  in  ari  old  curiosity  shop. 
And  it  smiled  with  sheer  deligh:,  not  at  me,  but  at 
the  thrush's  body.  There  was  no  change  of  expres- 
sion so  long  as  I watched  it,  just  a silent  smile  of 
pleasure  petrified  on  the  face.  I could  not  move  my 
eyes  from  it. 

“After  what  I suppose  was  a minute  or  so,  the 
face  had  gone.  I did  not  see  it  go,  but  I became 
aware  that  I was  looking  only  at  leaves. 

“No;  there  was  no  outline  of  leaf,  or  play  of 
shadows  that  could  possibly  haA^e  taken  the  form  of 
a face.  You  can  guess  how  1 tried  to  force  myself  to 
believe  that  that  was  all;  how  I turned  my  head  this 
way  and  that  to  catch  it  again;  but  there  was  no  hint 
of  a face.  Now,  I cannot  tell  you  how  I did  it;  but 
although  I was  half  beside  myself  with  fright,  I went 
forward  towards  the  bush  anc:  searched  furiously 
among  the  leaves  for  the  body  of  the  thrush;  and  at 
last  I found  it,  and  lifted  it.  Il  was  still  limp  and 
warm  to  the  touch.  Its  breast  was  a little  ruffled, 
and  one  tiny  drop  of  blood  lay  at  the  root  of  the 
beak  below  the  eyes,  like  a lear  of  dismay  and 
sorrow  at  such  an  unmerited,  unexpected  death. 

“I  carried  it  to  the  fenc€'  and  climbed  over, 
and  then  began  to  run  in  great  steps,  looking  now 
and  then  awfully  at  the  gathering  gloom  of  the  wood 
behind,  where  the  laughing  face  had  mocked  the 
dead.  I think,  looking  back  as  I do  now,  that  my 
chief  instinct  was  that  I could  not  leave  the  thrush 
there  to  be  laughed  at,  and  that  I must  get  it  out 
into  the  clean,  airy  meadow.  When  I reached  the 
middle  of  the  meadow  I came  to  a pond  which  never 
ran  quite  dry  even  in  the  hottest  summer.  On  the 
bank  I laid  the  thrush  down,  and  then  deliberately 
but  with  all  my  force  dashed  the  pistol  into  the 
water;  then  emptied  my  pockets  of  the  cartridges 
and  threw  them  in  too. 

“Then  I turned  again  to  the  piteous  little 
body,  feeling  that  at  least  I had  tried  to  make 
amends.  There  was  an  old  rabbii:  hole  near,  the  grass 
growing  down  in  its  mouth,  and  a tangle  of  web  and 
dead  leaves  behind.  I scooped  a little  space  out 
among  th^  leaves,  and  then  laid  the  thrush  there; 
gathered  a little  of  the  sandy  soil  and  poured  it  over 
the  body,  saying,  I remember,  half  unconsciously, 
'Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  in  sure  and  certain 
hope' — and  then  I stopped,  feelijig  I had  been  a little 
profane,  though  I do  not  think  so  now.  And  then  I 
went  home. 

“As  I dressed  for  dinner,  looking  out  over  the 
darkening  meadow  where  the  thrush  lay,  T remember 
feeling  happy  that  no  evil  thing  could  mock  the 
defenceless  dead  out  there  in  the  clean  meadow 
where  the  wind  blew  and  the  stars  shone  down."  fS 


80  Twilight  Zone 


television,  providing 
1 a steady  iiicome 
I for  the  company  i/' 
R when  feature  K 
^ film  contracts  4^ 
were  ^ 


Galaxy  Being” 
and  “Production  j 
and  Decay  I 

of  Strange  I 

Particles”  j 

(and  Leslie  ■ 

Stevens’s  third 
wife),  an  Ebonite 
from  “Nightmare,” 
Ik  and  the 

Laser  Being 
from  “The 
Bellero 


A rubber  and  glue  factory 
that  stunk  up  the  neighbor- 
hood," was  how  director 
Byron  Haskin  cheerfully  characterized 
Projects,  Unlimited,  the  first  true  "ef- 
fects company."  Assembled  in  the  late 
1950s,  Projects'  first  worlc  was  on  the 
George  Pal  feature  Tom  Thumb  (1958), 
and  subsequent  assignments  included 
Dinosaurus,  The  Time  Machine  (both 
1960),  Master  of  the  World  (1961), 
Jack  the  Giant  Killer  and  The  Wonder- 
ful World  of  the  Brothers  Grimm  (both 
1962). 

The  Outer  Limits  was 

n f_* . _ _ .1  r 


Projects  designed  and  developed  the 
show's  visually  unique  aliens,  executed 
model  animation  and  optical  tricks, 
and  served  as  a catch-all  special  effects 
pool  to  which  the  program's  "effects 
coordinator,"  M.B.  Paul,  assigned  jobs 
at  an  average  ceiling  of  $10,000  per 
episode.  Projects  participated  in  every 
episode  produced,  including  shows 
such  as  "The  Sixth  Finger,"  for  which 
they  did  not  design  makeup  but  did 
provide  props  and  opticals. 

The  principal  directors  of  the  com- 
pany were  Wah  Ming  Chang  and  Gene 
Warren,  who  represented  Projects  at 


Daystar  script  conferences,  with  fre- 
quent (uncredited)  assists  from  Haskin, 
who  served  as  a kind  of  organizer  and 
overseer  by  virtue  of  his  nine-year  stint 
as  head  of  the  special  effects  depart- 
ment at  Warner  Brothers  in  the  1930s. 
Haskin  often  did  charcoal  sketches  of 
proposed  monsters  for  series  producer 

Top:  Don  Gordon  tries  to  crawl  away  from 
an  alien  parasite  in  “The  Invisibles.” 

Below,  right  to  left;  Andro  from  “The  Man 
Who  Was  Never  Born,”  the  Box  Demon 
from  “Don't  Open  Till  Doomsday,”  the 
Empyrian  from  “Second  Chance,”  Allyson 
Ames  of  “The 


LIMITS 


Monsters, 

Incorporated 


by  David  J.  Schow 


WORKING  ON  A TIGHT  BUDGET  AND  AN  EVEN  TIGHTER  SGHEDULE, 
THE  SPECIAL  EFFECTS  TEAM  MADE  ALIENS'  EYES  BULGE  . . . AND 

THE  AUDIENCE'S,  TOO. 


h 

r 


AAJI^- 


LIMITS 


Joseph  Stefano,  which  were  then  sub- 
mitted to  Projects.  Sometimes  sketches 
came  on-the-spot  from  Haskin,  Chang, 
or  Warren  during  the  story  meetings. 
Chang  specialized  in  mask  sculpting 
and  Warren  in  optical  effects  design; 
the  latter  was  generally  farmed  out  to 
whatever  optical  house  had  the  lowest 
bid  or  the  smallest  workload.  The 
house  would  combine  Projects'  finished 
effects  with  the  actual  episode  footage. 

"Architects  of  Fear"  was  an  early 
example  of  the  Projects  "look"  impart- 
ed to  the  show,  featuring  a Chang- 
designed  alien  being,  a model  spaceship 
flying  against  a star  field  (and  animat- 
ed in  a later  shot  when  it  lands  with 
retro-rockets  firing),  and  a disintegrat- 
ing station  wagon.  This  last  shot,  a 
startling  effect  — the  car  flares  to  a bril- 
liant white,  caves  in,  and  vaporizes, 
leaving  a burning  residue  on  the  ground 
—was  achieved  by  quite  routine  means: 
the  silhouette  of  the  car  was  painted  on 
a sheet  of  glass,  superimposed  over  the 
scene,  and  scraped  away,  frame  by 
frame,  with  a matte  knife. 

Among  the  Projects  personnel  in- 
volved with  The  Outer  Limits  were  Tim 
Barr  (the  "gang  boss"  who  assembled 
Projects  and  got  them  their  first  assign- 
ments with  George  Pal),  A1  Hamm 
(model  animation),  Jim  Danforth  (an- 
imation and  paintings),  Robert  Rodine 
(animator/cameraman),  Paul  I^eBaron 
(Chang's  right-hand  man,  a prop-  and 
mask-maker  who  also  did  mechanical 
effects).  Bill  Brace  (matte  paintings), 
and  Paul  Petit,  who  assisted  on  special 
costumes  such  as  those  used  in  "Night- 
mare" and  operated  a hand-puppet 
monster  underwater,  wearing  a scuba 
suit,  for  a second  season  episode,  'The 
Invisible  Enemy." 'The  Projects  prop 
shop  was  run  by  Marcel  {King  Kong) 
Delgado  and  his  son  Victor,  who  them- 
selves designed  the  one-eyed  anemone- 
like aliens  for  "Moonstone."* 

The  Projects  staff  was  flexible,  ver- 
satile, resourceful,  and  fast.  'The  Zanti 
Misfits"  was  typical  of  the  way  Projects 
broke  down  the  average  Outer  Limits 
assignment:  Warren  was  in  on  the  pre- 
planning stages,  starting  with  the  first 
script  conference.  Chang  designed  and 
sculpted  the  Zantis  themselves  (when  an 
early  sketch  was  rejected  by  Stefano  as 
"too  ugly,"  the  physiognomy  of  the 
creatures  was  softened)  and,  with 


"Also  with  Projects  during  this  time,  but  not 
involved  in  Outer  Limits  work,  were  Dave 
Pal,  Tom  Holland,  Don  Soline,  and  Bob 
Mattey,  who  was  with  Disney  and  worked 
at  Projects  in  an  advisory  capacity. 


Makeup  man  Fred  Phillips  suits  up  William  O.  Douglas,  Jr.,  for  his  role  as  the  Eros 
alien  in  “The  Children  of  Spider  County.” 


LeBaron,  built  and  painted  them.  Six 
were  cast  around  wire  armatures,  and 
these  were  animated  on  tabletop  sets  by 
A1  Hamm  (a  veteran  of  Mighty  foe 
Young  and  creator  of  the  Speedy  Alka- 
Seltzer  commercials),  with  both  Rodine 
and  Chang  behind  the  camera;  Chang 
did  much  of  Projects'  camerawork  him- 
self. The  Zanti  penal  ship  was  a half- 
shell prop  (having  no  back  side)  built  by 
LeBaron  and  photographed  in  the  shots 
where  it  flies  by  either  Rodine  or 
Chang.  Any  and  all  optical  effects  were 
"directed"  shot-by-shot  by  Warren  via 
his  detailed  cue  sheets.  'We  were  usually 
given  two  weeks  on  each  episode,"  said 
Chang.  'We  would  invariably  be  work- 
ing on  two  or  three  episodes  at  a time." 

Like  Gerd  Oswald's  direction,  Ste- 
fano's  scripts  or  Conrad  Hall's  camera- 
work, Chang's  designs  for  the  resident 
aliens  of  such  shows  as  "Nightmare," 
'The  Bellero  Shield,"  'The  Children  of 
Spider  County,"  or  'The  Chameleon" 
are  another  of  the  show's  hallmarks. 
He  was  also  proficient  in  handling  the 
show's  occasionally  large  demands  on 
short  notice,  as  with  'Tourist  Attrac- 
tion," which  required  four  full-body 
amphibian  suits.  'We  had  to  build  spe- 
cial, large  ovens  to  cure  the  rubber  for 
those  massive  suits,"  he  recalled.  'They 
had  to  be  molded  to  fit  the  divers  ex- 
actly, and  the  time  we  had  to  put  these 
costumes  together  was  not  sufficient  to 
safeguard  against  certain  factors  — like 
some  of  the  divers  literally  bursting 


through  the  suits  after  being  sub- 
merged." Another  large  order  was  the 
150  prop  plants  needed  for  "Specimen: 
Unknown,"  twenty  of  which  shot  alien 
spores  (actually  Puffed  Wheat)  under 
air  pressure  from  concealed  hoses. 

Sometimes  the  configuration  of  an 
Outer  Limits  creature  was  determined 
by  the  tone  of  a script  rather  than  a 
specific  physical  description,  as  in 
"Don't  Open  Till  Doomsday,"  a foray 
by  Stefano  into  the  realm  of  frustrated 
sexuality  and  the  violent  repercussions 
that  befall  people  who,  as  he  put  it, 
"fail  to  consummate  whatever,  who  are 
unable  to  communicate,  and  who 
aren't  where  tf  ey're  supposed  to  be." 
The  Chang-designed  "Doomsday"  alien 
is  a chaos  of  phallic/vaginal  symbol- 
ogy, a one-eyed,  vaguely  breasted  amal- 
gam of  both  se>;es. 

One  of  the  wildest,  most  improb- 
able monsters  was  designed  by  Gene 
Warren  for  'The  Mice."  Described  only 
as  humanoid  and  "repulsive"  in  the 
original  script,  the  result  looks  like  a 
Portuguese  man-of-war  with  silver 
legs,  dangling,  mucoid  psuedopodia, 
crab  claws,  and  several  slavering 
mouth  holes.  The  globular  headpiece 
of  the  costume  was  poured  slip  rubber 
and  solidified  glue.  It  weighed  over  a 
hundred  pounds  and  had  to  be  lowered 
onto  stunt  man  Hugh  Imngtry  using  a 
block  and  tackle  attached  to  a tree  in 
MGM's  'Tarzan  Forest,"  where  exter- 
iors were  shot.  The  top  half  of  the  out- 


82  Twilight  Zone 


nSSK  ANGLE  ' FLOOR  Lf  VEL 


11. 


4 

As  the  Cleaning  Lady  t«BlnB  to  vacuum  the  floor. 

She  heeds  almost  at  orce  In  the  direction  of  a 
far  wall,  pokes  the  cleaner  attachment  up  against 
the  baseboard.  She  seems  to  be  having  some  dlffl- 
cultj  reaching  some  stubbon\  refuse.  She  switches 
off  the  cleaner,  replcoea  the  attachment  with  one 
designed  for  getting  'nto  tight  places,  swltohes 
the  cleaner  on,  goes  ct  the  truant  bit  of  refuse. 

During  this,  CAMERA  hea  MOVED  FORWARD,  toward  her, 
slowly,  almost  ominouely.  Now  It  Is  CLOSE  and: 


• 3 


6 


7 


CLOSE  ANGLE  5 

as  the  Cleaning  Lady  sets  down  on  her  knees.  Inspects 
the  refuse.  CAMERA  MCVE3  IN  VERY  CLOSE.  Vfe  see  that 
the  refuse  Is  a small  object  resembling  a ball  of 
black  dust  or  lint.  It  Is  In  close  against  the  wood- 
work of  the  baseboard , as  If  it  were  seeping  out  of 
the  crack  between  the  baseboard  and  the  floor.  It  seems 
lifeless,  harmless.  The  Cleaning  Lady  Jabs  the  cleaner' 
attachment  right  at  It,  sucks  it  Into  the  tube. 

CAMEItA  SWIFTLY  PANS  along  the  long  tube,  as  If  follow- 
ing the  captured  object  along  straight  to  the  tank- 
Itke,  Industrlal-styls  vacuum  cleaner  container. 

Reaching  the  tank,  CAFERA  KOIDS , CLOSE.  A moment  and 
we  HEAR,  from  within  the  tank,  a horrendous,  booming 
scream. 

CLEA.NING  LADY  - ECU  6 

As  she  turns,  her  fact  white  with  terror,  her  mouth 
open. 

VACUUM  CLEANER  TANK  - CLOSE  - CLEANING  LADY'S  P.O.V.  7 

The  tank  beglna  to  tremble,  shudder,  as  If  a monstrous 
force  were  building  u;  Inside  of  it.  Then  there  is  a 
minor  short-circuit  ejploslon  within  the  cleaner's 
motor.  And  then  the  lid  of  the  tank  blows  off  with 
violent  force.  And  the  ENERGY  MONSTER  begins  to  emerge, 
a black,  smoking,  shameless  blob  of  power,  flashing 
and  thx^>bblng  and  deejly  screaming.  As  it  begins  to 
assume  the  shape  of  scmathlng  near-human: 


(EFD  PROLOGUE) 


FADE  OUT. 


SlkTH  DAY  OF  SHOOTING 
jggjDAV 

OCTOBER  e*.  1963 

LOCATION:  KTTV  STUDIOS  - STAGE  #4 

INT.  NORCO  MAIN  LABORATORY  - NIGHT  - 6 Scs.  - 1 2/8  Pge.  - (2) 
See.  2-3-4.5-6-7-FADE  OUT. 


CONST.  A EFX. 

^FX.  Ball  of  black  dust/ 
lint 

SPEC.  EaUIP. 

Llghtnlr^  scissors 

DESCRIPTION:  Cora  Cleaning-Lady  enters  in  search  of  Golden  Time  - 
Finding  no  schnapps  available  for  a short  nightcap,  she  decides 
she  might  as  well  do  some  work  and  BOY  OH  BOY,  WAS  THAT  A MISTAKE.".; 
She  fires  up  her  trusty  ol'  Electrolux,  spots  a likely  victim  and 
gives  It  the  suction  action,  a bit  of  action,  unbeknownst  to  her, 
that  our  hero  (Leonard  Lint)  finds  tastier  than  cheese  bllnttes  - 
He  enters  hie  oeuedo-womb  and  ZOWIE!.'  - Dayatar's  answer  to  the 
White  Tornado"  - The  Cleaning  Lady,  viewing  this  horrible  spectre, 
does  the  only  logical  thing  - She  dies. 

NOTE:  TIEDOWN  CAMERA  FOR  OPTICAL  3UPERIMPOSURE  OF  E.SEROY  MO.NSTER 


INT.  PIT  CORRIDOR  - NIGHT  - 4 See.  - 5/8  Pgs.  - (1?) 

SCS.  28-29-30,  32 

C^T  CONST,  t EFX. 

(6)  Slroleo  Rig  door  to  elide  shut 

DESCRIPTION:  Scs.  28-29-30  - Slroleo  stealthily  creeps  towaz^s 
dead-end  wall  of  corridor  - door  closes  behind  him  - Hnunm  - What 
to  do,  what  to  do?  - He  looks  In  his  Dick  Tracy  Handbook  for 
advice  - Finding  only  solutlone  to  besting  Pruneface  In  matters 
of  International  skullduggery,  he  decides  to  do  what  any  good 
cop  would  do  - He  calls  for  his  Mother  - No  answer  - But,  wait 
a minute,  what's  that  at  the  end  of  the  dead-end  corridor  - 
Slroleo  advances  a-purpose  and  peeks  through  the  window.  (3/6  Pgs.) 

(Se.  32.  - Whatever  he  saw,  you  can  bet  your  marbles  It  wasn't 
dear  old  Mother  by  the  way  Slroleo  wants  out  - He  pounds  on  the 
steel  door  like  mad  (careful,  Slroleo,  It's  not  really  steel 
and  unless  two  grips  and  a prop  man  brace  It  from  the  other  side 
you'll  wind  up  doing  an  unpald-for  stunt).  2/8  Pgs.) 


INT.  THE  ENERGY  PIT  - BLACK  LIMBO  - 1 Sc.  - 1/8  Pg.  - (18) 

So.  31 

(NO  cast,  no  extras,  no  rnlse.,  no  nothin') 

DESCRIPTION:  Slroleo's  POV  - That  terrible,  hideous  spectre  that 
we  have  grown  to  love  called  THE  (gasp)  ENERGY  (choke)  BEING  (shudder). 

NOTE:  TIEDOWN  CAMERA  FOR  OPTICAL  SUPERIHP06URE  OF  ENERGY  MONSTER 


CAST  Mlac. 

(9)  Cleaning  Woman  Cleaning  rags 
Hr.  Klean 
Vaeu’jm  cleaner 
& attachments 


From  “It  Crawled  Out  of  the  Woodwork”:  a comparison  between  Joseph  Stefano’s  original  script  (left)  and  assistant  director 
Lee  Katzin’s  shooting  scliedule  breakdown  (right).  Unlike  today’s  “master-scene”  approach  to  tv  writing,  Stefano’s  teleplay  is 
methodically  specific.  The  breakdown  is  typical  of  Katzin’s  humorous  approach  to  the  material.  Script  pages  were  divided  into 
eighths  so  that  a calculable  number  of  pages  could  be  shot  per  day.  Note  that  the  episode’s  first  scene  was  filmed  on  the 
final  (sixth)  day  of  shooting. 


fit  reappeared  as  a pulsating  alien  brain 
in  a later  episode,  'The  Guests,"  to 
much  better  effect. 

A lofty  speech  abou:  the  "soaring 
freedom"  experienced  by  :he  natives  of 
the  planet  Empyria  in  "Second  Chance" 
inspired  the  less-than-successful  mask 
worn  by  actor  Simon  Oakland  as  the 
alien:  a ridiculously  feathered  contrap- 
tion that  was  originally  to  have  sport- 
ed a foot-long  beak!  Once  again  the 
script  offered  little  help,  describing  the 
face  as  "slant-featured,  stylized;  not  so 
much  ugly  as  totally  unearthly." 
Chang  revamped  his  skelch,  but  even 
with  the  beak  omitted,  Fred  Phillips 
noted  that  "I  had  to  rearrange  the 
feathers  and  add  a longei"  nose  just  to 
tell  it  was  a face.”  Oakland  lends  quite 
a bit  of  dignity  to  his  portrayal  of  a 
troubled,  desperate  alien,  but  he  is 
largely  sabotaged  by  the  mask  and  an 
ill-fitting  gold  lame  costume  that  makes 
him  look  as  spindly-leg};ed  and  top- 
heavy  as  a pouter  pigeon.  'That  mask 
got  joked  about  a lot,"  recalls  Gene 
Warren.  "We  called  it  'Chicken 
Little.' " (It  was  later  recycled  for  a 
second  season  episode,  "1'he  Duplicate 
Man,"  this  time  with  the  beak  — show- 
ing how  silly  the  idea  looked  in  the 
first  place.) 

Other  on-set  nicknames  for  Outer 
Limits  monsters  included  "Willy  Lump- 
Lump"  for  the  Thetan  in  'Architects  of 
Fear"  (Byron  Haskin  dubbed  the  mon- 


ster after  his  favorite  Red  Skelton  char- 
acter; while  directing  War  of  the 
Worlds  a decade  earlier,  he'd  given  the 
same  name  to  the  Martian),  "Chill 
Charlie"  for  the  ice-ghost  in  'The  Hu- 
man Factor,"  and  the  "Fried  Egg  Mon- 
ster," a name  coined  by  Joseph  Stefano 
for  the  bug-eyed  menace  played  by 
Warren  Oates  in  'The  Mutant."  The 
bulging  eyes,  also  courtesy  of  Projects, 
were  catlike,  veiny  half-shells  with  pin- 
point holes  for  Oates  to  see  through. 
"I'd  first  seen  the  eyes  the  night  before 
we  shot  it,"  said  Fred  Phillips,  "and  I 
thought.  What  the  hell  are  we  going  to 
do  with  these!"  He  ultimately  used 
mortician's  Dumo  Wax  to  arch  Oates's 
brows,  trying  to  make  the  eyes,  eye- 
lids, and  face  flow  together  naturally, 
but  the  heat  on  the  Bronson  Canyon 
location  shooting  caused  the  wax  to 
melt  — drops  of  it  can  be  frequently 
seen  on  Oates's  face  — and  the  eyes  to 
pop  off  in  mid-take,  to  the  weary  hi- 
larity of  cast  and  crew.  ("The  Mutant" 
is  also  the  episode  where  a crate  la- 
beled "Daystar"  is  clearly  visible  in 
several  shots  beneath  the  cot  of  space 
colonist  Robert  Sampson.) 

Other  in-jokes  evincing  the  good 
humor  of  the  Outer  Limits  working  en- 
vironment include  a dialogue  reference 
in  'The  Human  Factor"  to  such  off- 
screen characters  as  "both  your  sons, 
Joe  and  Lou"  — referring  to  Stefano  and 
story  editor  Lou  Morheim.  In  'The 


Chameleon"  a trigger-happy  general  is 
seen  constantly  picking  up  a "red  line" 
phone  and  calling  for  a "Colonel  Ste- 
vens" (Leslie  Stevens  was  the  series' 
coproducer).  Uncredited  cameraman 
William  ^raker  is  mentioned  in  "Corpus 
Earthling,"  and  Justman  the  Butler  in 
"Don't  Open  Till  Doomsday"  is  named 
after  long-suffering  assistant  director 
Robert  Justman,  who,  together  with 
fellow  a.d.  Lee  Katzin,  worked  up 
many  of  the  show's  shooting  sched- 
ules—the  shot-by-shot  breakdowns  of 
each  day's  work  during  filming— which 
of  necessity  include  short  summaries  of 
the  action  in  a given  scene.  Katzin  and 
Justman  competed  by  making  the 
shooting  schedules  for  the  episodes  on 
which  they  worked  as  funny  as  pos- 
sible, with  each  man  claiming  credit 
for  the  dirtier  ones.  Characters  don't 
"exit"  in  a Katzin  breakdown,  they 
"f.o."  In  Justman's,  they  "effoe." 

Even  the  Control  Voice  speeches, 
for  all  their  augustness,  were  occasion- 
ally treated  lightly.  "Some  of  them  are 
pretty  outrageous,"  admits  Joseph  Ste- 
fano. "But  the  narration  never  said 
anything  I didn't  firmly  believe  in,  and 
never  without  a certain  amount  of 
tongue  in  cheek.  There's  a lot  more  hu- 
mor in  The  Outer  Limits  than  anyone 
ever  dreamed,  simply  because  that's  a 
part  of  me  that  must  play." 

NEXT:  MELNICK'S  FOLLY 

J 


Twilight  Zone  83 


SHOW-BY-SHOW  GUIDE 


LIMITS 

Part  Three 


“There 

is  nothing  wrong  with  your 
teievision  set.  Do  not  attempt  to  adjust  the  pic- 
^^^^^ture.  We  are  controiiing  transmission.  We  wiil  contrg) 
the  horizontai.  We  wiii  control  the  vertical.  We  can 
change  the  focus  to  a soft  blur,  or  sharpen  it  to  crys^;/. 
tal  clarity.  For  the  next  hour,  sit  quietly  and  we  will 
control  all  that  you  see  and  hear.  You  are  about  to 
experience  the  awe  and  mystery  which  reaches 
from  the  inner  mind  to  THE  OUTER  LIMITS.” 


by  David  J.  Schow  and  Jeffrey  Frentzen 

CONTINUING  OUR  SEVEN-PART  SURVEY  OF  THE 
SERIES,  COMPLETE  WITH  THE  WORDS  OF  THE 
CELEBRATED  'CONTROL  VOICE.' 


15.  THE  MICE 

Broadcast  January  6,  1964 
Written  by  Joseph  Stefano 
Based  on  "Exchange  Student,"  a script 
by  Bill  S.  Ballinger,  from  a story 
idea  by  Lou  Morheim  (teleplay 
credited  to  Ballinger  and  Stefano) 
Directed  by  Alan  Crosland,  Jr. 

Cast 

Chino  Rivera  (Henry  Silva),  Dr.  Julia 
Harrison  (Diana  Sands),  Dr.  Thomas 
Kellander  (Michael  Higgins),  Dr. 
Robert  Richardson  (Ronald  Foster), 
Haddon  (Don  Ross),  Goldsmith  (Gene 
Tyburn),  Chromoite  (Hugh  Langtry), 
Prison  Warden  (Frances  DeSales),  Dr. 
Williams  (Dabney  Coleman),  Chromo 
Transmission  Voice  (Robert  Johnson) 

"In  dreams,  some  of  us  walk  the  stars. 
In  dreams,  some  of  us  ride  the  whelm- 
ing brine  of  space,  where  every  port  is 
a shining  one,  and  none  are  beyond 
our  reach.  Some  of  us,  in  dreams,  can- 
not reach  beyond  the  walls  of  our  own 
little  sleep." 

Faced  with  life  imprisonment  for 
murder,  Rivera  volunteers  for  duty  as 
a human  guinea  pig  in  an  exchange 
program  between  Earth  and  the  planet 
Chromo.  "It's  worked  with  mice,"  su- 
pervising scientist  Kellander  says  of 
the  "teleportation  agency"  built  from 
Chromoite  instructions,  and  soon 
enough  it  conducts  a native  of  that 


world  to  Earth  as  well.  The  Chromo- 
ite, a gelatinous,  crab-clawed  biped, 
roams  the  lab  compound  freely  while 
the  scientists  wait  for  the  ideal  time  to 
beam  Rivera  to  Chromo.  Rivera  spends 
his  free  time  trying  to  escape,  and 
when  Dr.  Richardson  is  discovered 
strangled  at  a nearby  lake,  the  natural 
suspect  is  Rivera  and  not  the  alien, 
which  he  calls  a "garbage  eater"  even 
though  Chromoites  are  supposed  to 
live  by  photosynthesis.  Dr.  Julia  Har- 
rison observes  the  creature  eating  a 
doughy  scum  that  had  spawned  in  the 
lake  shortly  after  its  arrival.  The  Chro- 
moite chases  her  back  to  the  lab  just  as 
the  attempt  to  transmit  Rivera  fails  and 
all  contact  with  Chromo  is  lost.  The 
Chromoite  murders  a guard  and  tries 
to  commandeer  the  transporter.  Rivera 
shoots  it  with  the  guard's  pistol,  abort- 
ing the  attempt.  The  aliens  on  Chromo 
recontact  the  lab,  admitting  that 
"Chromo's  soil  no  longer  yields,"  and 
that  they  have  been  seeking  a new 
planet  to  use  for  production  of  their 
staff  of  life  — the  lake  scum.  The  Chro- 
moite is  not  an  expendable  guinea  pig 
but  their  most  eminent  scientist,  and 
having  failed  in  their  deception,  the 
home  planet  requests  his  return.  Kel- 
lander sees  Rivera  in  a new,  honorable 
light,  and  angrily  tells  Chromo  that  all 
they  had  to  do  for  help  was  ask. 

"Hunger  frightens  and  hurts,  and  it  has 
many  faces,  and  every  man  must 


Diana  Sands  in  the  clutches  of  the 
Chromoite. 

sometime  face  the  terror  of  one  of 
them.  Wouldn't  it  seem  that  a misery 
known  and  understood  by  all  men 
would  lead  Man  not  to  deception  and 
murder  but  to  faith,  and  hope,  and 
love?" 


16.  CONTROLLED  EXPERIMENT 

Broadcast  January  13,  1964 

Written  and  directed  by  Leslie  Stevens 

Cast 


Senior  Solar  System  Inspector  Phobos- 
One  (Barry  Morse),  Accredited  Earth 
Caretaker  Deimos  (Carroll  O'Connor), 


Barry  Morse  (left)  and  Carroll  O’Connor 
with  their  “temporal  condenser,” 
watching  ... 


84  Twilight  Zone 


Carla  Duveen  (Grace  Lee  Whitney), 
Bert  Hamil  (Robert  Fortier),  Frank 
Brant  (Robert  Kelljan),  Arleen 
Schnable  (Linda  Hutchins),  Martian 
Computer  Control  Voice  (Leslie 
Stevens) 


"Who  has  not  seen  the  dark  comers  of 
great  cities,  whose  small  and  shabby 
creatures  wander  without  purpose  in 
the  secret  comers  of  the  night?  With- 
out purpose?  There  are  those  whose 
purpose  reaches  far  beyond  our  wildest 
dreams. " 


Stuffy,  prissy,  by-the-book  Inspector 
Phobos,  a Martian  official,  arrives  on 
Earth  with  instructions  l:o  assess  the 
local  custom  of  murder  in  terms  of  its 
threat  potential  to  the  galaxy.  "It  only 
happens  here,  on  this  weird  little  plan- 
et," he  says  to  his  Earth  liaison, 
Deimos,  a friendly  if  somewhat  be- 
fogged type  hermitted  away  in  his 
"caretaker  post,"  a pawnsfiop.  Together 
this  interstellar  Odd  Couple  isolates  an 
incident  of  murder— jilted  sexpot  Carla 
Duveen  blowing  away  two-timing 
lothario  Bert  Hamil  in  a hotel  lob- 
by—and  uses  a "temporal  condenser" 
to  reverse  time  and  replay  the  killing 
over  and  over,  in  fast  and  slow  mo- 
tion, even  stopping  the  sequence  alto- 
gether. When  Phobos  tampers  by  flick- 
ing Carla's  bullet  off  trajectory,  (sparing 
Bert),  Mars  advises  that  their  eventual 
offspring  will  think  itseif  invincible, 
grow  up,  become  a dictator,  nuke 
Earth,  and  cause  a galactic  catastrophe. 


. . . a-pre-Sfar  Trek  Grace  Lee  Whitney 
blast  a "two-faced,  no  good,  black-hearted 
two-timer!” 


To  save  both  Bert  and  the  galaxy, 
Phobos  alters  the  shooting  to  spare 
Bert's  life  through  a lucky  accident. 
The  lovers  are  reconciled,  and  Phobos 
chooses  to  remain  with  Deimos  and 
further  sample  such  native  diversions 
as  coffee  and  cigarettes. 


"Who  knows?  Perhaps  the  alteration  of 
one  small  event  may  someday  bring 
the  end  of  the  world.  But  that  some- 
day is  a long  way  off,  and  until  then 
there  is  a good  life  to  be  lived  in  the 
here  and  now." 


17.  DON'T  OPEN  TILL  DOOMSDAY 

Broadcast  January  20,  1964 
Written  by  Joseph  Stefano  , 

Directed  by  Gerd  Oswald  ^ 

Cast 

Mrs.  Kry  (Miriam  Hopkins),  Gard 
Hayden  (Buck  Taylor),  Vivia  Hayden/ 
Balfour  (Melinda  Plowman),  Emmett 
Balfour  (John  Hoyt),  Justice  of  the 
Peace  (Russell  Collins),  Justice's  Wife 
(Nellie  Burt),  Harvey  Kry  (David 
Frankham),  Justman  (Anthony  Joa- 
chim), Dr.  Mordecai  Spezman  (Frank 
Delfino),  Voice  of  Box  Monster 
(Robert  Johnson) 

"The  greatness  of  evil  lies  in  its  awful 
accuracy.  Without  that  deadly  talent 
for  being  in  the  right  place  at  the  right 
time,  evil  must  suffer  defeat.  For  unlike 
its  opposite,  good,  evil  is  allowed  no 
human  failings,  no  miscalculations. 
Evil  must  be  perfect  ...  or  depend 
upon  the  imperfections  of  others. " 

The  consummation  of  a young  bride's 
wedding  night  is  cut  short  when  an  un- 
timely gift  arrives:  a mysterious  box 
that  absorbs  her  groom,  Harvey  Kry. 
Inside  is  a squat,  one-eyed  alien  who 
offers  him  freedom  if  he  will  help  it  re- 
unite with  others  of  its  kind  to  "blend 
frequencies"  and  form  a symphony  of 
destruction  that  will  annihilate  the  uni- 
verse. Harvey  steadfastly  refuses.  Mrs. 
Kry  spends  thirty-five  years  awaiting 
the  return  of  her  groom,  for  which  she 
needs  someone  else  to  take  his  place  in 
the  box.  Enter  newlyweds  Gard  and 
Vivia,  whom  Mrs.  Kry  (now  totally 
crazy,  still  wearing  her  Roaring  Twen- 
ties flapper  garb)  puts  up  in  her  man- 
sion's never-used,  decaying  bridal  suite. 
Among  the  unopened  gifts  still  inside  is 
the  box,  and  when  Gard  steps  out  for 
a moment  it  absorbs  Vivia. 

Using  bribery  and  "big  lawyer 


talk,"  ex-D.A.  Balfour  learns  the  loca- 
tion of  his  eloping  daughter  Vivia. 
When  Vivia  refuses  to  help  the  alien, 
Mrs.  Kry  tricks  Balfour  into  the  box. 
He  lies  to  the  alien  to  free  himself  and 
Vivia,  and  Gard  gets  Vivia  away  from 
the  mansion  before  the  alien  realizes 
the  deception  and  reabsorbs  Balfour. 
While  Gard  and  Vivia  watch,  the  alien 
"uncreates"  itself,  the  house,  and  every- 
body inside. 


The  Box  Demon. 


"Without  that  deadly  talent  for  -being 
in  the  right  place  at  the  right  time,  evil 
must  suffer  defeat.  And  with  each 
defeat,  Doomsday  is  postponed  . . . for 
at  least  one  more  day." 


18.  ZZZZZ 

Broadcast  January  27,  1964 
Written  by  Meyer  Dolinsky 
Additional  material  by  Joseph 
Stefano 

Directed  by  John  Brahm 
Cast 

Prof.  Benedict  O.  Fields  (Phillip  Ab- 
bott), Francesca  Fields  (Marsha  Hunt), 
Regina/Queen  Bee  (Joanna  Frank),  Dr. 
Howard  Warren  (Booth  Coleman), 
Voice  of  Mr.  Lund  (Robert  Johnson), 
Bee  Voices  (John  Elizalde) 

"Fiuman  life  strives  ceaselessly  to  per- 
fect itself,  to  gain  ascendancy.  But 
what  of  the  lower  forms  of  life?  Is  it 
not  possible  that  they,  too,  are  con- 
ducting experiments  and  are  at  this 
moment  on  the  threshold  of  deadly 
success?" 

No  sooner  does  entomologist  Ben 
Fields  send  his  wife  Francesca  to  town 

.» 


Twilight  Zone  85 


i ' 


Aim' 


LIMITS 


to  place  an  ad  for  an  assistant  than  he 
discovers  a ravishing  girl  unconscious 
in  his  garden,  who,  once  revived,  asks 
for  the  job.  Her  name  is  Regina,  and 
she  is  the  queen  of  a superintelligent 
hive  that  has  given  her  human  form  in 
order  that  she  might  mate  with  Fields 
to  produce  hybrid  offspring.  Neither 
Fields  nor  Francesca  suspect  the  new 
assistant's  motives,  rationalizing  that 
Regina's  strange  behavior  stems  from 
foreign  origin  — until  Francesca  spots 
Regina  in  the  garden  at  night,  drawing 
pollen  from  the  flowers  and  metamor- 
phosing into  a man-sized  bee!  Regina 


Close-up  of  the  spoke  pattern  in  the  eye  of 
bee  girl  Joanna  Frank. 


experiences  horrible  internal  pain  the 
next  day  and  uses  a computer  trans- 
lator of  Ben's  to  communicate  with  the 
hive.  Her  cramps  prove  to  be  food 
poisoning,  but  a physician  tells  Ben 
that  "she's  the  closest  thing  to  a com- 
plete mutant  I've  ever  seen"  in  terms 
of  her  body  and  blood  composition. 
When  Francesca  catches  Regina  ad- 
dressing her  subjects,  Regina  unleashes 
the  hive  to  sting  her  to  death.  Ben  dis- 
covers tapes  of  the  communications  be- 
tween Regina  and  the  hive,  and  when 
Regina  tries  to  assume  Francesca's 
place,  Ben  delivers  an  impassioned 
speech  on  the  sanctity  of  matrimony 
and  backs  the  queen  off  the  second- 
floor  balcony.  She  reverts  to  bee  form 
and  flies  away. 

"When  the  yearning  to  gain  ascendan- 
cy takes  the  form  of  a soulless,  loveless 
struggle,  the  contest  must  end  in  un- 
lovely defeat.  For  without  love,  drones 
can  never  be  men,  and  men  can  only 
be  drones." 


19.  THE  INVISIBLES 

Broadcast  February  3,  1964 
Written  by  Joseph  Stefano 
Directed  by  Gerd  Oswald 


Cast 

Luis  B.  Spain  (Don  Gordon),  Genero 
Planetta  (Tony  Mordente),  Governor 
Lawrence  K.  Hillman  (George  Mac- 
ready),  General  Hilary  J.  Clarke  (Neil 
Hamilton),  Oliver  Fair  (Richard  Daw- 
son), Mrs.  Clarke  (Dee  Hartford),  "In- 
visibles" Recruiter  (Walter  Burke), 
Castle  (Chris  Warfield),  Attachment 
Supervisor  (John  Graham),  GIA  agent 
Johnny  (William  O.  Douglas,  Jr.), 
Sforza  Power  Co.  GIA  agent  (Len 
Lesser),  Voice  of  GIA  Chief  (Vic  Per- 
rin), "Invisibles"  Phone  Voice  (Robert 
Johnson) 

"You  do  not  know  these  men.  You 
may  have  looked  at  them,  but  you  did 
mot  see  them.  They  are  newspapers 
.blowing  down  a gutter  on  a windy 
night.  For  reasons  both  sociological 
and  psychological,  these  three  have 
never  joined  or  been  invited  to  join 
society.  They  have  never  experienced 
love  or  friendship,  or  formed  any  last- 
ing or  constructive  relationship.  But  to- 
day, at  last,  they  will  become  a part  of 
something.  They  will  belong;  they  will 
come  a little  bit  closer  to  their  unreal- 
istic dreams  of  power  and  glory.  To- 
day, finally,  they  will  join  the— I al- 
most said  the  human  race.  And  that 
would  have  been  a half-truth.  For  the 
race  they  are  joining  today  is  only  half 
human. " 

The  mission  of  Government  Intelli- 
gence Agency  operative  Spain  is  to  in- 
filtrate an  "illegal  and  subversive" 
society  called  the  Invisibles,  whose 
members  plot  to  infect  key  men  in 
government  and  industry  with  scut- 
tling, voracious,  trilobite-like  alien  par- 
asites, and  eventually  control  the  coun- 
try through  these  hosts.  The  top  Invisi- 
bles are  themselves  hosts  who  employ 
corrupt  low-lifes  to  execute  their  dirty 
work,  inoculating  them  against  "acci- 
dental invasion"  by  the  indiscriminate 
parasites.  Spain  is  accepted  as  a recruit 
and  inoculated.  His  first  assignment  as 
an  Invisible  is  to  go  to  Washington  and 
use  a parasite  to  infect  an  army  general 
named  Hilary  Clarke.  As  cover,  Spain 
becomes  Clarke's  chauffeur,  with  the 
endorsement  of  Clarke's  effete  aide, 
Oliver  Fair,  another  Invisible  who 
serves  as  Spain's  chaperone  for  the 
mission.  Spain  discovers  that  Clarke  is 
already  an  Invisible  and  that  the  mis- 
sion is  a set-up  intended  to  expose 
Spain  as  a double  agent.  The  Invisibles 
would  very  much  like  to  have  an  oper- 
ative inside  the  GIA,  so  Fair  and 
Clarke  plan  to  use  the  parasite  Spain 


Tony  Mordente  with  an  “Invisible.” 


has  brought  on  Spain  hirtiself,  just  as 
soon  as  his  inocttlation  runs  out.  Spain 
escapes  from  Clarke's  mansion  but  is 
accidentally  run  down  ( by  Clarke's 
wife;  his  ankle  is  smashed  in  the  wheel- 
well  of  her  car.  In  terrible  pain,  he 
nevertheless  takes  the  car  and  drives  to 
a power  plant  to  seek  out  fellow  In- 
visibles recruit  Planetta,  whom  he 
cultivated  as  an  ally  back  at  the  indoc- 
trination camp,  and  whose  help  he 
now  needs  to  get  back  to  GIA 
headquarters.  Planetta's  "primal  target" 
as  a new  Invisible,  however,  was  Luis 
B.  Spain!  Planetta  unleashes  a parasite, 
and,  having  no  stomach  for  the  attach- 
ment procedure,  abandons  Spain  with 
the  creature.  Screaming  for  help,  Spain 
tries  vainly  to  ci'awl  away  as  the  crea- 
ture gains  on  him.  Planetta  has  a last- 
minute  change  cif  heart  and  returns  to 
pry  the  parasite  off  Spain's  back  just  as 
it  begins  to  attach  itself.  A rescue  party 
of  GIA  agents  arrives,  and  Planetta 
and  the  parasite  die  in  a hail  of  bullets. 
They  escort  Spain  to  safety,  explaining 
that  they've  apprehended  Oliver  Fair, 
who  is  "coopera  ring." 

"You  do  not  know  these  men.  You 
may  have  looked  at  them,  but  you  did 
not  see  them.  They  are  the  wind  that 
blows  newspapers  down  a gutter  on  a 
windy  night  . . . and  sweeps  the  gutter 
clean." 


20.  THE  BELLB^O  SHIELD 

Broadcast  February  10,  1964 
Written  by  Josej^h  Stefano 
Story  by  Stefano  and  Lou  Morheim, 
based  on  the  Arthur  Leo  Zagat 
short  story  ""fhe  Lanson  Screen" 
Developmental  writing  by  Perry 
Barry  and  Mort  Lewis 
Directed  by  John  Brahm 
Cast 

Richard  Bellero,  Jr.  (Martin  Landau), 
Judith  Bellero ' (Sally  Kellerman), 


86  Twilight  Zone 


John  Hoyt  as  the  “Bifrost”  al  en. 


Richard  Bellero,  Sr.  (Neil  Hamilton), 
Mrs.  Dame  (Chita  Rivera),  "Bifrost" 
alien  (John  Hoyt) 

"There  is  a passion  in  the  human  heart 
which  is  called  aspiration.  It  flares  with 
a noble  flame,  and  by  its  light  men 
have  traveled  from  the  caves  of  dark- 
ness to  the  darkness  of  outer  space. 
But  when  this  passion  becomes  lust, 
when  its  flame  is  fanned  by  greed  and 
private  hunger,  then  asviration  be- 
comes lust,  by  which  sin  the  angels  fell. " 

Inventor  Richard  Bellero's  newest  laser 
device  does  nothing  to  impress  his 
father,  who  intends  to  pass  him  over 
for  the  chairmanship  of  the  Bellero 
Corporation,  but  the  device  does  ac- 
cidentally intercept  a being  from  a 
world  that  "hovers  just  above  the  ceil- 
ing of  your  universe,"  a I'adiant  crea- 
ture possessed  of  keen  perceptions  and 
gentle  marmerisms.  It  demonstrates  for 
Richard  the  impenetrable  shielding  de- 
vice that  enables  it  to  tra  vel  between 
worlds;  clearly  the  device  could  be  the 
ultimate  defensive  weapon.  Richard's 
greedy  wife  Judith,  sees  the  shield  as  a 
means  by  which  to  win  her  husband 
the  chairmanship  from  Bellero  Sr.  — with 
whom  she  has  been  feuding  hatefully 
for  years  — and  in  short  order  she  shoots 
the  alien,  steals  the  device  (a  palm- 
button  connected  to  a vein  in  the 
alien's  wrist),  ditches  the  corpse  in  the 
wine  cellar  with  the  help  of  her  sinister 
lady-in-waiting,  Mrs.  Dame,  and  dem- 
onstrates to  an  astonished  Bellero  Sr. 
his  son's  "Bellero  Shield."  Once  sur- 
rounded by  the  shield,  shi;  proves  im- 
pervious to  bullets  and  Richard's  laser 
pistol,  but  her  triumphant  expression 
curdles  somewhat  when  she  finds  she 
can't  remove  the  shield  and  her  oxygen 
is  going  fast.  The  truth  is  exposed  and 
Bellero  Sr.  goes  to  the  basement  to 
view  the  alien.  Enraged  by  his  vituper- 
ative remarks  about  Judith  Mrs.  Dame 


clouts  him  and  he  tumbles  down  the 
stairs  to  sprawl  atop  the  "dead"  alien, 
whose  eyes  suddenly  snap  open!  The 
mortally  weakened  being  staggers  back 
to  the  lab,  still  trusting,  still  innocent 
of  how  it  has  been  used;  "When  she 
borrowed  the  thing,  she  accidentally 
broke  the  vein.  My  fluid  is  like  your 
blood  — the  prime  ingredient."  So  say- 
ing, it  uses  some  of  its  milky  blood  to 
free  Judith,  then  expires  in  a dazzling 
burst  of  white  light.  A penitent  Judith 
goes  to  her  husband,  but  stops  stock- 
still two  feet  away  and  begins  rubbing 
her  hands  across  a barrier  that  no 
longer  exists  while  murmuring  "nothing 
will  ever  remove  it."  Her  experience 
has  left  her  broken  and  insane,  not 
unlike  Lady  Macbeth,  and  a very 
pointed  close-up  reveals  a glowing 
smear  of  alien  blood  on  the  palm  of 
her  hand. 

'When  this  passion  called  aspiration 
becomes  lust,  then  aspiration  degener- 
ates, becomes  vulgar  ambition,  by 
which  sin  the  angels  fell." 


21.  THE  CHILDREN  OF 

SPIDER  COUNTY 

Broadcast  February  17,  1964 
Written  by  Anthony  Lawrence 
Directed  by  Leonard  Horn 
Cast 

Ethan  Wechsler  (Lee  Kinsolving), 
Aabel  (Kent  Smith),  John  Bartlett  (John 
Milford),  Sheriff  Stakefield  (Crahan 
Denton),  Mr.  Bishop  (Dabbs  Greer), 
Anna  Bishop  (Bennye  Gatteys),  Gener- 
al (Robert  Osterloh),  Mr.  Greenbane 
(Joe  Perry),  Deputy  (Joey  Tata),  Mil- 
itary Intelligence  Officer  (Roy  Engel), 
Aabel  as  Eros  creature  (William  O. 
Douglas,  Jr.) 

“In  light  of  today's  growing  anxieties, 
it  has  become  more  absolute  that  the 
wealth  of  the  nation  consists  in  the 
number  of  superior  men  that  it  har- 
bors. It  is  therefore  a matter  of  deep 
concern,  and  deeper  consequence, 
when  four  of  the  most  magnificent  and 
promising  young  minds  in  the  country 
suddenly  disappear  off  the  face  of  the 
Earth  ..." 

Ethan  Wechsler,  whose  unusual  mental 
abilities  have  earned  him  the  label 
"witch-boy"  among  the  yokels  in  rural 
Spider  County,  is  being  detained  on  a 
trumped-up  murder  charge  until  a 
weird,  insectile  alien  shows  up  to  res- 
cue him  from  his  sheriff's  deputy 
escorts.  Assuming  the  form  of  a cul- 


tured, white-haired  gentleman,  the 
alien  hastens  Ethan  away  to  sanctuary. 
Meanwhile,  the  U.S.  Space  Agency  has 
noticed  a peculiar  pattern  of  disappear- 
ances among  four  of  the  nation's  top 
scientists:  all  were  born  prematurely, 
fatherless,  within  the  same  month,  and 
inside  Spider  County.  Ethan  is  the  fifth 
of  their  group,  having  never  left  his 
birthplace.  The  alien,  Aabel,  explains 
that  he  is  Ethan's  missing  father;  that 
he  and  others  came  from  the  planet 
Eros  to  interbreed  with  humans  and 
produce  male  children,  something  no 
longer  possible  on  that  planet.  He  has 


Aabel  (William  O.  Douglas,  Jr.)  glares  at 
the  camera  for  a special-effects  setup. 


come  to  take  Ethan  home,  but  Ethan 
resists  the^idea,  having  roots  and  a girl- 
friend in  Spider  County.  Aabel  would 
rather  destroy  Ethan  than  abandon  him 
to  the  "dogs  and  desperation"  on  Earth, 
and  tries  in  vain  to  convince  the  boy 
to  return  to  Eros  voluntarily.  Ethan 
ultimately  chooses  to  face  the  "neat 
and  legal"  justice  of  Earthmen,  and 
Aabel  cannot  bring  himself  to  destroy 
the  better  half  of  himself,  the  "dream 
part."  Ethan  is  gifted  with  the  ability  to 
dream,  the  loss  of  which,  Aabel 
claims,  is  responsible  for  the  barrenness 
on  Eros.  Aabel  leaves  empty-handed 
(the  other  four  fatherless  geniuses  also 
stay  behind),  but  it  is  clear  the  Space 
Agency  plans  to  intercede  on  Ethan's 
behalf  to  clear  him  of  the  murder 
charge. 

"The  wealth  of  a nation,  of  a world, 
consists  in  the  number  of  superior  men 
that  it  harbors,  and  often  it  seems  that 
these  men  are  too  different,  too  dream- 
ing. And  often,  because  they  are 
driven  by  powers  and  dreams  strange 
to  us,  they  are  driven  away  by  us.  But 
are  they  really  so  different?  Are  they 
not,  after  all,  held  by  the  same  things 
that  hold  us,  by  strong  love  and  soft 
hands?"  IS 


Twilight  Zone  87 


(continued  from  page  45) 

Part  Four:  Place  the  letter  of  the  correct  statement 
in  the  space  at  the  left. 

1.  An  important  feature  of  the  novel  is 

(a)  a magic  sword,  (b)  a magic  ring, 

(c)  a magic  cloak,  (d)  all  of  the  above. 

2.  The  novel  contains  (a)  elves,  (b)  dwarfs, 

(c)  trolls,  (d)  all  of  the  above. 

3.  The  novel  contains  (a)  a dragon, 

(b)  a unicorn,  (c)  i centaur,  (d)  all  of 
the  above. 

4.  The  novel  contains  (a)  a quest, 

(b)  a prophecy,  (c)  a curse,  (d)  all  of  the 
above. 

5.  The  novel  contains  (a)  dungeons, 

(b)  sorcerers,  (c)  a lost  kingdom,  (d)  all 
of  the  above. 

6.  The  hero  learns  that  only  he  can 

(a)  wield  the  enchanted  sword,  (b)  wear 
the  magic  talisman,  (c)  fulfill  the 
prophecy,  (d)  all  of  the  above. 

7.  The  hero  has  (a)  mighty  thews, 

(b)  sinews  of  steel,  (c)  forearms  corded 
with  muscle,  (d)  all  of  the  above, 

(e)none  of  the  above. 

8.  The  hero  (a)  likes  sex  and  gets  plenty  of 

it,  (b)  appears  to  like  sex  but  is  too  busy 
to  fool  around,  (c)  has  never  learned  the 
facts  of  life,  (d)  is  not  letting  on. 

9.  The  hero  has  (a)  a wound,  (b)  a limp, 

(c)  a disease,  (d)  all  of  the  above. 

10.  The  hero  is  (a)  guilt-ridden,  (b)  insecure, 

(c)  confused,  (d)  all  of  the  above. 

11.  The  hero  resolves  difficulties  by 

(a)  hitting  someone  with  a sword,  (b)  cal- 
ling upon  a magic  talisman,  (c)  running, 

(d)  sheer  luck. 

12.  The  heroine  is  (a)  a passionate,  full- 

bodied  vision  of  nubile  loveliness,  (b)  a 
golden-haired  elf  child,  (c)  no  better  than 
she  should  be,  (d)  none  of  the  above. 

13.  The  heroine  is  (a)  a lot  smarter  than  the 

hero,  (b)  dressed  as  a boy  much  of  the 
time,  (c)  possessed  of  lithe  catlike  grace, 
(d)  all  of  the  above. 


_14.  A significant  event  occurs  in  (a)  a cave, 
(b)  a tomb,  (c)  a tunnel,  (d)  all  of  the 
above. 

_15.  The  wicked  sorcerer  v/ants  to  rule  (a)  the 
kingdom,  (b)  the  world,  (c)  the  universe, 
(d)  all  of  the  above. 

_16.  The  wicked  sorcerer  (a)  has  a nasty 

name,  (b)  lives  in  a place  with  a nasty 
name,  (c)  has  an  associate  with  a nasty 
name,  (d)  all  of  the  above. 

_17.  The  good  wizard  is  (a)  very  old, 

(b)  crotchety,  (c)  mor«;  powerful  than  he 
first  appears,  (d)  all  of  the  above. 

_18.  The  setting  of  the  bock  is  (a)  a palace, 

(b)  a woodcutter's  ho-\'el,  (c)  a cave, 

(d)  all  of  the  above. 

_19.  Names  of  people  and  places  (a)  all  sound 
alike,  (b)  are  unpronounceable,  (c)  contain 
a lot  of  z's  and  x's,  (c)  all  of  the  above. 

_20.  In  the  course  of  the  book,  (a)  a lot  of 
dead  people  come  back  to  life,  (b)  a lot 
of  living  people  die,  (c)  both  a and  b, 

(d)  neither  a nor  b. 

_21.  Reviewers  claim  that  the  book  is  in  the 
tradition  of  (a)  The  Lord  of  The  Rings, 

(b)  the  Arthurian  legends,  (c)  the  great 
fantasy  epics,  (d)  all  cf  the  above. 

_22.  Reviewers  call  the  bock  (a)  riveting, 

(b)  compelling,  (c)  resonant,  (d)  all  of 
the  above. 

_23.  Reviewers  describe  the  book  as  (a)  the 

work  of  a master  storyteller  at  the  height 
of  his/her  powers,  (b)  the  stunning  debut 
of  a major  new  talent,  (c)  another  dish  of 
warmed-over  Tolkien,  (d)  all  of  the 
above. 

.24.  The  book  is  reviewed  in  (a)  The  New 
Yorker,  (b)  The  New  York  Review  of 
Books,  (c)  Time,  (d)  none  of  the  above. 

.25.  You  will  purchase  (a)  a 286-page 

paperback  for  $2.95,  (b)  an  illustrated 
trade  paperback  for  $5.95,  (c)  a 
hardcover  edition  for  1517.50,  (d)  none 
of  the  above.  10 


88  Twilight  Zone 


T Z 


CLASSIC 


T E L E P L A Y 


0' 


Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet 


THE  ORIGINAL 
TELEVISION  SCRIPT 
FIRST  AIRED  ON  CBS-TV 
OCTOBER  11  1963 


Cast 

Bob  Wilson William  Shatner 

Ruth  Wilson Ctiristine  White 

Gremlin Nick  Cravat 

Copilot Edward  Kemmer 

Stewardess Asa  Moynor 

ACT  ONE 

FADE  ON, 


L EXT.  AIRPORT  NIGHT 

2.  FULL  SHOT  AUiLINER 

A four-engine  DC-7.  Passengers 
boarding. 


3.  INT.  AIRLINER  CABIN 
ANGLE  TOWARD  DOOR 

CAMERA  SHOOTING  OVER  the 
backs  of  two  seats  on  the  right 
side  of  the  cabin,  about  halfway 
to  the  front.  Passengers  are 
entering  and  being  greeted  by 
the  stewardess,  their  names 
checked  off  on  a clip-boarded  list 
by  the  copilot  after  which  they 
make  their  way  to  various  seats. 
(One  of  them  is  a uniformed  State 
Police  officer.)  Bob  Wilson  and  his 
wife  Ruth  enter.  Bob  carrying  an 
overnight  bag.  Ruth  waits  for  him 
to  give  their  names,  then  seeing 
that  he  is  too  distracted,  does  so 
herself.  As  they  approach  the 
foreground  seats,  we  see  that 
he  is  very  nervous,  restraining  it 
beneath  a tense  veneer.  Ruth,  on 
the  other  hand,  looks  exhausted. 
She  stops  beside  the  foreground 
seats  and  looks  at  Bob,  smiling. 


RUTH 

These  all  right? 

He  nods  jerkily,  his  smile  a mere 
twitching  of  the  lips.  He  puts  their 
overnight  bag  on  the  shell  and 
they  shed  their  topcoats.  Bob 
removing  a newspaper  and 
paperback  book  from  one  of  the 
pockets  before  putting  the  coat  on 
the  shelf  beside  Ruth's.  As  he  looks 
uneasily  at  the  seats,  one  of  the 
entering  passengers  has  to 
squeeze  by  him  and  Bob  glances 
at  the  maa  then  exchanges  a 
look  with  Ruth. 

RUTH 

You  want  me  to  sit  by  the—? 
BOB 

(overlapping) 

No. 

Hastily,  he  sits  on  the  seat  by  the 
window  and  Ruth  sinks  dowa 
tlredly,  beside  him.  CAMERA 


Twilight  Zone  89 


Matheson 
Looks  at 
His  ‘Nightmare’ 

THE  AUTHOR  WEIGHS  THE 
MERITS  OF  THE  TV  VERSION 
—AND  REVEALS  SOME  OF 
THE  PROBLEMS  IN  BRINGING 
IT  TO  THE  SCREEN. 


Of  all  the  Twilight  Zones  I wrote, 
“Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet”  remains  one 
of  my  favorites.  It  was  well  directed  by 
Richard  Donner,  and  I loved  William  Shat- 
ner’s  performance.  I still  wish,  though,  that 
Pat  Breslin  had  played  his  wife  (as  she  did 
i in  the  Twilight  Zone  segment  “The»Nick  of 
’ Time”),  and  I thought  the  monster  on  the 
I wing  was  somewhat  ludicrous.  It  looked 
; rather  like  a surly  teddy  bear. 

In  Twilight  Zone— The  Movie,  the  story 
was  entitled  merely  “Segment  4.”  That's 
probably  just  as  well,  because  otherwise 
; the  title  would  have  had  to  be  changed  to 
i “Nightmare  at  35,000  Feet,”  since  the  air- 
; liner  was  a modern  one  and  that  height 
was  mentioned  in  the  script. 

I was  told,  at  the  start,  that  Gregory 
Peck  was  being  considered  for  the  movie 
i version.  Accordingly,  my  script  portrayed 
Wilson,  the  hero,  as  a character  like  the 
one  Peck  played  in  Twelve  O’clock  High, 
a former  bomber  pilot  who  had  already 
been  exposed  to  the  idea  of  “gremlins.” 
i He  had  no  mental  problems:  he  was  mere- 
ly reacting  to  the  gremlin's  destructive 
behavior  and— with  mounting  frustration 

MOVES  IN  on  them.  Bob  smiles  at 
her  with  ettort,  putting  his  hand 
over  hers. 

BOB 

Don't  worry;  I'll  be  all  right, 
(pause;  looking  around) 

I can  face— 

He  breaks  oft  looking  at  the 
offscreen  bulkhead. 

RUTH 

What  is  it? 

He  doesn't  speak.  Swallowing,  he 
gestures  slightly  toward  the 
bulkhead  with  his  head.  CAMERA 
DRAWS  AROUND  to  reveal  that  he 
is  sitting  next  to  the  emergency 
door. 


and  fury— to  the  crew’s  disbelief  in  what 
he  said,  resulting  in  his  ultimate  decision 
to  take  things  into  his  own  hands.  It  was 
also  to  be  more  of  a filler  piece  than  a full 
segment— ten  to  twelve  minutes  in  length. 
I didn’t  really  think  it  could  be  cut  down 
that  much,  but  I gave  it  a try. 


‘The  monster  on  the  wing 
looked  rather  like  a 
surly  teddy  bear.’ 


This  version  was  ignored.  Director 
George  Milter  wrote  a draft  of  a script  that 
I disliked  intensely.  He  then  wrote  a sec- 
ond draft  which  I liked  better.  So  although 
I have* a solo  credit  as  screenwriter  for  the 
segment,  most  of  the  dialogue  is  Miller’s. 
Fortunately,  he’s  a consummate  director, 
and  John  Lithgow  is  a consummate  actor. 
I thought  Jerry  Goldsmith’s  score  was 
marvelous,  and  I liked  the  monster  infinite- 
ly more — even  its  sense  of  humor. 

RUTH 

(not  really  understanding) 

'The  emergency  door? 

He  continues  looking  at  the  door 
and  Ruth  closes  her  eyes  a few 
moments  as  if  bracing  herself  for 
what  is  coming,  then  opens  them 
and  manages  a smile. 

RUTH 

(restrainedly  cheerful) 

You  want  to  move? 

BOB 

(mutedly) 

No. 

He  takes  his  eyes  from  the  door 
and  looks  at  her  with  a wavering 
smile. 


BOB 

No,  it— doesn't  matter. 

(inhales  shakingly) 

What's  the  difference  where  I sit 
anyway?  11 's  not  the  seat  it's  the 
airplane. 

Ruth  doesn't  Icnow  what  to  say. 

She  watches  Bob  take  a pack  of 
cigarettes  from  his  suitcoat  pocket 
and  drop  onei  in  his  nervousness. 
She  bends  over  to  pick  it  up. 

BOB 

(quickly) 

That's  all  right. 

(as  she  hands  it  to  him’  tightly) 
'Thank  you. 

He  lights  it  and  puffs  out  a cloud 
of  smoke,’  makes  a sound  of 
vague  amusement 

BOB 

I don't  act  much  like  a cured 
maa  do  I? 

RUTH 

(pained) 

Honey. 

(taking  his  hand) 

You  are  cured. 

(beat) 

Would  Dr.  Martin  let  you  fly  if 
you  wereri't? 

BOB 

(uncertainly) 

I suppose  not. 

RUTH 

Of  course  !ie  wouldn't.  If  you 
weren't  welt  he'd  never  let  you 
fly  home,’  it's  as  simple  as  that. 

BOB 

(forcing  a smile) 

You  make  it  sound  that  simple, 
anyway. 

RUTH 

It  ^ Bob;  jiist  that  simple. 

He  nods,  trying  to  look  convinced. 

BOB 

Yeah. 

(pause,’  opolcjgetically) 

Here  I am  hogging  the  stage 
when  you're  so  tired. 

RUTH 

(smiling) 

I'm  all  right 

BOB 

NO;  you  look  exhausted 

He  gazes  at  her  several  moments 
more,  then  kjans  over  and  puts  an 
arm  around  her,  pressing  his 


90  Twilight  Zone 


cheek  to  hers.  CAMERA  MOVES  IN 
tor  a TIGHT  TWO  SHOT. 

BOB 

(brokenly) 

I've  missed  you,  baby.  These 
last  six  months  . . . 

RUTH 

Shhh. 

(kisses  his  cheek) 

It's  all  over  now. 

(draws  back  to  smile  at  him) 
Mama's  taking  you  T ome. 

BOB 

It  must  have  been  ov/tul  for 
you.  Taking  care  of  the  kidS; 
bearing  the  full  respc  risibility. 

RUTH 

(cheerfully) 

Everything's  still  intact. 

BOB 

(grimly;  pause) 

Except  me. 

RUTH 

(firmly) 

Now,  I'm  not  going  tc  let  you— 

She  breaks  off  os  the  offscreen 
door  CLANGS  SHUT  and,  with  a 
terrible  gasp,  Bob  twists  around  to 
look  in  that  directioa  his  face  a 
mask  of  panic. 

4.  CXOSE  ON  BOB  AND  RUTH 

As  Bob  completes  his  turn  and 
looks  frightenedly  towa::d— 

5.  THE  DOOR  AREA 

The  copilot  locking  it  shut  the 
stewardess  starting  to  tell  the 
nearest  passengers  to  fasten  their 
seat  belts. 

6.  BOB  AND  RUTH 

Bob  still  looking  toward  the 
offscreen  door. 

RUTH 

Honey? 

He  turns  back  quickly,  manages  a 
tremulous  smile. 

BOB 

(trying  to  make  a joke  of  it) 

Just  a little— abject  cowardice  is 
all. 

RUTH 

(taking  his  hand) 

Shhh. 


Bob  presses  his  lips  together  and, 
averting  his  eyes,  starts  to  fasten 
his  seat  belt.  Ruth  keeps  glancing 
at  him  worriedly  as  she  fastens 
hers.  CAMERA  MOVES  IN  on 
Wilson  until  he  is  in  extreme  close- 
up.  He  reacts  as  the  offscreen 
engines  are  started,  one  by  one,- 
takes  a last  deep  lungful  of  smoke 
and  stamps  out  the  cigarette  in 
the  ashtray. 

SERLING'S  VOICE 

Portrait  of  a frightened  maa 
Mr.  Robert  Wilsoa  thirty-sevea 
husband,  father,  and  salesman 
on  sick  leave.  Mr.  Wilson  has 
just  been  discharged  from  a 
sanitarium  where  he  has  spent 
the  last  six  months  recovering 
from  a nervous  breakdowa  the 
onset  of  which  took  place  on 
an  evening  not  dissimilar  to  this 
one— on  an  airliner  very  much 
like  the  one  in  which  Mr. 

Wilson  is  about  to  be  flown 
home. 

7.  SERLING 

SERUNG 

The  difference  being  that  on 
that  evening  half  a year  ago, 
Mr.  Wilson's  flight  was 
terminated  by  the  onslaught  of 
his  mental  breakdown.  Tonight 
he  is  traveling  all  the  way  to 
his  appointed  destination— 
which,  contrary  to  Mr.  Wilson's 
plaa  happens  to  be  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  Twilight  Zone. 


FADE  OUT, 

FIRST  COMMERCIAL 

FADE  IN, 

8.  EXT.  SKY  AIRLINER 
NIGHT 

9.  INT.  CABIN  FULL  SHOT 

Darkened  except  for  the 
overhead  aisle  lights  and  the 
reading  light  over  Wilson's  seat. 

lO.  BOB  AND  RUTH 

The  window  curtains  drowa 
Ruth  is  asleep.  Bob  reading  the 
newspaper  without  interest  trying 
not  to  rustle  the  pages.  Finally,  he 
lets  his  arms  drop  and  the  paper 
falls  cracklingly  to  his  lap.  Ruth 
starts  a little  and  partly  opens  her 
eyes. 

RUTH 

(groggUy) 

Honey? 

'Twitching  slightly.  Bob  looks  at  her 
apologetically. 

BOB 

Tm  sorry. 

(beat) 

Go  to  sleep. 

RUTH 

I should  stay  awake  with  you. 
BOB  , 

No,  no,  I don't  want  you  to, 
sweetheart.  Go  to  sleep  now. 

I'm  all  right. 

She  sighs  tiredly  and  closes  her 
eyes  again. 


STEWARDESS 
(as  she  passes) 

Seat  belts,  please. 


Twilight  Zone  91 


Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet 


RUTH 

(faintly) 

Can't  you  sleep? 

BOB 

(patting  her  hand) 

I will.  Don't  worry  about  me. 

She  becomes  quiet  and,  otter 
looking  at  her  awhile,  a tender 
smile  on  his  lips,  he  turns  to  the 
window  and  pushes  aside  the 
curtains. 

U.  ANOTHER  ANGLE 

CAMERA  SHOOTING  PAST  Wilsoa 
out  through  the  window.  We  can 
see  the  wing  lights  blinking,  the 
flashes  ot  exhaust  from  the  engine 
cowlings.  After  several  moments, 
lightning  bleaches  the  sky. 

12.  CLOSE-UP  BOB 

Wincing  at  the  lightning  and 
averting  his  face.  As  darkness  falls 
agaia  he  looks  upward  scanning 
the  sky  uneasily.  Now  he  looks  at 
the  wing  agaia  starts  to  turn  to  the 
front  after  a while  and  does  a 
mild  double-take. 

13.  EXT.  WINDOW 
CLOSE  SHOT  BOB 

The  ROAR  of  the  engines 
offscreen  He  leans  close  to  the 
window,  looking  out  squints  to  see 
better. 

14.  REVERSE  SHOT  BOB 

CAMERA  SHOOTING  PAST  him 
revealing  the  dark  wing  outside. 
Wilson  presses  his  face  against  the 
glass,  staring  intently.  There  is 
something  large  moving  on  the 
wing  but  we  cannot  make  out 
what  it  is. 

15.  CLOSE-UP  BOB 

Staring  though  the  window,  his 
expression  verging  on  incredulous 
dread. 

16.  MED.  SHOT  WING 

Wilson's  reflection  seen  in  the 
window  glass.  Suddenly,  there  is 
another  flash  of  lightning  and  in 
its  momentary  glare,  we  see  what 
appears  to  be  an  apelike  man 
crawling  on  the  wing. 

17.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOB 

Recoiling  against  his  seat,  gaping 
at  the  wing  in  stupefaction. 


18.  POVSHQT  WING 

Dark  again.  We  can  barely  make 
out  the  crawling  form  outside. 

19.  BOB  AND  RUTH 

Bob  unable  to  function  at  first. 
'Thea  the  expression  of  stupefied 
honor  printed  on  his  face,  he  turns 
to  Ruth  and  reaches  out  to  wake 
her,  his  lips  stirring  without  sound. 
Abruptly,  he  decides  that  she 
might  become  alarmed  and 
draws  his  hand  back,  looking 
around  with  rising  desperation. 
Now  he  catches  sight  of  the 
button  used  to  summon  the 
stewardess  and  starts  to  jab  at  it 
repeatedly,  looking  through  the 
window  again.  He  rises  slightly, 
alternating  between  pained 
glances  through  the  window  and 
across-the-shoulder  looks  lor  the 
stewardess— who,  after  several 
moments,  appears  at  the  rear  of 
the  cabin  and  moves  quickly 
down  the  aisle.  Wilson  pushes  up 
further  and  gestures  for  her  to 
speed  up.  The  stewardess  reaches 
him  her  expression  one  of  alarm. 

STEWARDESS 

(softly) 

What  is  it  Mr.—? 

Wilson  points  agitatedly  at  the 
wing. 

BOB 

(interrupting  softly) 

There's  a man  out  there! 

STEWARDESS 

(appalled) 

What? 

Wilson  drops  back  on  the  seat 
and  presses  back,  still  pointing  at 
the  wing. 

BOB 

Look,  look! 

(looking  out) 

He's  crawling  on  the—! 

He  breaks  off  in-  shock,  leaning 
toward  the  window  quickly. 

20.  POVSHOT  WING 

In  a moment  a flash  of  lightning 
reveals  that  the  man  is  no  longer 
there. 

21.  CLOSE  ON  BOB 

His  dazed  expression  reflected  on 
the  window;  also  that  of  the 
stewardess  as  she  looks  down  at 
him  blankly.  CAMERA  DRAWS 


BACK  as  Wilson  turns  to  look  at 
her. 

22.  rever:>e  shot  bob, 

RUTH,  .itND  STEWARDESS 

The  stewardess  parts  her  lips  as  if 
she  means  to  speak,  but  soys 
nothing.  An  C[ttempted  smile 
momentarily  distends  her  features. 

BOB 

(barely  able  :o  speak) 

I— I— I'm— S(orry.  It— must  have- 
been  . . . 

RUTH 

(opening  her  eyes) 

Bob? 

He  glances  at  her  in  distracted 
alarm  then  looks  back  at  the 
stewardess.  Noting  the  shift  of  his 
gaze,  Ruth  twists  around  and  looks 
up  at  the  ste^z/ardess  who  smiles 
at  her  automatically. 

RUTH 

(stUl  sleepy) 

What  is  it? 

STEWARDESS 

Nothing,  Mrs.  Wilsoa 
(to  Bob) 

May  I get  you  anything? 

BOB 

(anxious  to  get  rid  of  her) 

A glass  of  water. 

STEWARDESS 

Surely. 

She  turns  away  and  Ruth  looks 
back  at  Bob,  blinking  and  trying 
to  wake  up. 

RUTH 

Is  something  wrong? 

BOB 

No. 

(pause;  trying  to  smile) 

No,  L uh  ...  thought  I sow 
something  outside,  that's  all. 

RUTH 

What? 

BOB 

Nothing.  I . . 

(turning  to  close  the  curtains) 
—need  a little  sleep,  I guess. 

RUTH 

(pause) 

Are  you  all  right? 

BOB 

Yeah,  Tm— line. 

Ruth  looks  grOggily  at  her 


92  Twilight  Zone 


wristwatch  and  frowns  in  concern, 
looks  back  at  Bob. 

RUTH 

Don't  you  think  you'<3  better 
take  a sleeping  capsule  now? 

BOB 

(draws  in  a shaking  breath,'  nods) 
Yeah  Yeah,  I'll,  uh— 

He  doesn't  finish  but  watches  as 
she  retrieves  her  purse  from  under 
the  seat  opens  it  and  takes  out  a 
tiny,  plastic  container.  F’emoving 
its  cop,  she  shakes  one  of  the 
capsules  into  his  palm  as  the 
stewardess  returns  with  a paper 
cup  full  of  water.  Bob  avoids  her 
eyes  as  he  takes  the  cup  from  her. 

BOB 

(mutedly) 

Thank  you. 

STEWARDESS 
You're  welcome. 

(beat) 

Would  you  like  a blanket? 

BOB 

No,  thank  you. 

(remembering  Ruth) 

Uh  . . . honey? 

RUTH 

(to  the  stewardess) 

No;  thank  you. 

The  stewardess  nods  and  moves 
away,  glancing  back  uneasily  at 
Wilsoa  not  certain  whether  she 
should  ignore  him  or  not.  Wilson 
washes  down  the  capsule  with 
some  water,  holds  out  the  cup  to 
Ruth. 

BOB 

Sip? 

RUTH 

No,  thank  you,  honey. 

(as  the  cabin  lurches  slightly) 

We  must  be  moving  into  a 
storm. 

BOB 
1 guess. 

He  finishes  drinking  the  water, 
crumples  the  cup,  and  disposes  of 
it.  He  looks  to  the  front,  then  after 
several  moments,  back  at  Ruth. 

RUTH 

You  be  all  right  now? 

BOB 

Yes.  Go  back  to  sleejD. 

RUTH 

You  call  me  if  you  need  me. 


BOB 

I will. 

He  turns  on  his  side  so  that  his 
back  is  to  her.  Ruth  looks  at  him 
for  several  seconds,  thea  unable 
to  keep  her  eyes  opea  closes 
them  again  and  starts  falling 
asleep.' 

23.  CLOSE-UP  BOB 

Eyes  closed,  face  held  rigidly.  Now 
he  opens  his  eyes  and  stares  into 
his  thoughts,'  clearly,  he  fears  that 
he  is  suffering  a relapse.  CAMERA 
CIRCLES  him  SLOWLY  untU  the 
window,  with  its  curtain  drawa  is 
seen  next  to  his  face.  Bob  stares  at 
it  awhile,  tension  building,  then 
finally,  on  an  impusle,  reaches  up 
and  pushes  the  curtain  aside. 
Instantly,  he  stiffens,  his  face 
distorted  by  shock.  Inches  away, 
separated  from  him  only  by  the 
thickness  of  the  window,  is  the 
man's  face  staring  in  at  him.  It  is  a 
hideously  malignant  face,  a face 
hot  human.  Its  skin  is  grimy,  of  a 
wide-pored  coarseness,-  its  nose  a 
squat  discolored  lump-  its  lips 
misshapea  cracked,  forced  apart 
by  teeth  of  a grotesque  size  and 
crookedness;  its  eyes  small  and 
recessed,  unblinking.  All  framed 
by  shaggy,  tangled  hair  which 
sprouts,  also,  in  furry  tufts  from  the 
man's  ears  and  nose,  in  birdlike 
down  across  his  cheeks.  Wilson  sits 
riven  to  his  seat  incapable  of 
response;  he  cannot  so  much  as 
blink.  Dull-eyed,  hardly  breathing, 
he  returns  the  creature's  vacant 
stare. 

24  CLOSE-UP  BOB 

As  he  suddenly  closes  his  eyes 
and  presses  back  against  the  seat 

BOB 

(whispering  to  himself) 

It  isn't  there. 

(pause;  shakOy) 

It— isn't— there. 

Bracing  himselt  he  opens  his  eyes 
and  turns  them  slowly  to  the 
window.  As  a gagging  inhalation 
fills  his  throat  CAMERA  WHIP  PANS 
to  the  window.  Not  only  is  the 
man  there  but  he  is  grinning  at 
Wilsoa 

25.  BOB  AND  RUTH 

Wilson  gaping  at  the  offscreen 
man  Now,  keeping  his  eyes  on 
the  maa  he  starts  to  reach  back 


slowly  to  awaken  Ruth.  He  tries 
not  to  move  his  lips  as  he  speaks. 

BOB 

Honey. 

26.  THE  MAN,  BOB,  AND  RUTH 

Bob  and  Ruth  reflected  on  the 
window  glass.  Outside  the 
window,  the  man  is  watching  Bob 
with  vacuous  absorption 

27.  'WILSON  AND  RUTH 

Wilson  aghast  as  he  realizes  that 
the  man  seems  to  know  what  he 
is  trying  to  do.  He  puts  his  hand  on 
Ruth's  arm. 

BOB 

Honey,  wake  up. 

Ruth  stirs  in  her  sleep.  Bob 
suddenly  freezes,  seeing— 

28.  THE  MAN 

Turning  his  Caliban  head  to  look 
toward  the  rear  of  the  cabin. 

29.  BOB 

Jerking  his  head  around  to  see— 

30.  STEWARDESS 

Approaching  down  the  slightly 
bucking  aisle. 

31.  BOB  AND  THE  MAN 

Bob  looking  toward  the 
stewardess  in  wild  hope,  then  at 
the  man.  He  stiffens  as  the  man's 
gaze  shifts  to  him  a smile  of 
monstrous  cunning  appearing  on 
his  lips. 


32.  BOB  AND  STEWARDESS 

The  window  offscreen.  Wilson 


Twilight  Zone  93 


Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet 


whirls  toward  the  approaching 
stewardess. 

BOB 

(with  desperation) 

Quickly. 

He  looks  back  to  the  window,  his 
expression  petriiying.  CAMERA 
PANS  TO  the  window.  The  man  is 
gone. 

33.  BOB 

Staring  at  the  oilscreen  window, 
appalled.  In  background,  we  see 
the  lower  hall  oi  the  stewardess  as 
she  stops  by  Ruth's  chair. 

STEWARDESS 

(tensely) 

Yes,  Mr.  Wilson. 

Bob  is  afraid  to  turn  to  her.  He 
looks  sick  and  frightened. 

STEWARDESS 

Can  1 help  you  Mr.  Wilson? 

» 

Bracing  himselt  Bob  turns. 

34  ANOTHER  ANGLE  BOB, 
RUTH,  AND  STEWARDESS 

As  he  looks  up  at  the  stewardess, 
he  knows,  in  an  instant  that  she 
isn't  going  to  believe  him  and 
clamps  a vise  on  his  emotions. 

BOB 

(tightly) 

Are  we  going  into  a storm? 

STEWARDESS 
(smiling  with  effort) 

Just  a small  one.  Nothing  to 
worry  about 


He  nods  jerkily  and,  after  an 
awkward  hesitatioa  the 
stewardess  smiles  agaia 
twitchingly,  and  moves  down  the 
aisle,  walking  OUT  OF  FRAME. 
Wilson  watches  her  go,  then 
slumps  back  against  the  seat. 

35.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOB 

As  his  head  falls  against  the  seat 
back,  his  eyes  staring  straight 
ahead,  hountedly. 

BOB 

(pause) 

Honey? 

(plaintively  as  he  looks  at  her) 
Would  you  woke  up,  honey? 

He  breaks  off  before  finishing  and 
looks  around  quickly  at  the 
window. 

36.  POVSHOT  WING 

With  an  arcing  descent  the  dark 
figure  of  the  man  comes  jumping 
down  to  it  much  like  an  ape 
dropping  from  a tree.  There  is  no 
visible  impact  he  lands  fragilely, 
short,  hairy  arms  outstretched  as  if 
for  balance.  A flare  of  lightning 
reveals  him  there,  grinning 
triumphantly  at  Wilson. 

37.  BOB 

Staring  at  the  man  with  uncertain 
fear  and,  now,  a new  element 
rising  anger. 

38.  POVSHOT  THE  MAN 

Barely  visible  in  the  darkness. 


located  near  the  front  of  the 
inboard  engine. 

39.  BOB 

Trying  hard  to  see  what  the  man 
is  doing. 

40.  POV  SHOT  THE  MAN 

The  wing  is  chalked  with 
lightning  and  we  see  that  like  an 
inquisitive  child,  the  man  is 
squatting  on  the  hitching  wing 
edge,  stretching  out  his  left 
forefinger  toward  the  whirling 
propeller. 

41.  BOB 

Watching  in  appalled  fascination 

42.  POV  SHOT  THE  MAN 

Moving  his  finger  closer  and 
closer  to  the  blurring  gyre  of  the 
propeller;  he  is,  by  now, 
imperfectly  iltuminated  by  the 
flash  of  the  engine  exhaust.  A 
flare  of  lightning  reveals  him 
touching,  then  jerking,  his  hand 
back  from  the  propeller,  his  lips 
twitching  in  ci  soundless  cry. 

43.  BOB 

Reacting  with  a sickened 
expression  ci^rtaln  that  the  man 
has  lost  his  finger.  Abmptly,  his 
expression  alters  as  he  sees  that 
the  man  is  uirharmed. 

44.  POV  SHOT  THE  MAN 

Seen  at  first  only  partially;  then  os 
lightning  flaslies,  completely,- 
gnarled  foref  nger  extended  once 
more,  the  very  picture  of  some 
monstrous  infant  trying  to  touch 
the  spin  of  a fan  blade.  He  jerks 
his  hand  and  back  again  and 
another  flash  of  lightning  reveals 
him  putting  tlie  finger  in  his  mouth 
as  if  to  cool  it.  He  looks  across  his 
shoulder  nov^  and  grins 
moronically  <3t  Wilson. 

45.  BOB 

Reacting  to  tliis,-  sensing  that  the 
man  is  playing  a game  with  him. 
Suddenly,  he  starts  to  draw  back 
fearfully. 

46.  ANOT1.IER  ANGLE 
INCLUDING  WINDOW 

The  man  is  v^alking  across  the 
wing  toward  the  window.  Just 
before  he  reaches  it,  Wilson  sees 
the  reflection  of  the  stewardess  as 
she  passes  by  in  the  aisle.  He  jerks 


94  Twilight  Zone 


his  head  around  in  ar  guish, 
raising  his  left  hand  as  if  to  signal 
her;  thea  realizing  the  futility  of  it, 
lowers  his  hand  and  turns  back  to 
the  window,  shrinking  trom  the 
sight  of  the  maa  just  outside, 
leering  in  at  him.  The  man  grins 
hideously  and  glances  toward  the 
engine  and  back  at  lAtilson  as  it  to 
say;  Wait  till  you  see  what  I'm 
going  to  do  now.  He  turns  away 
and  Bob  leans  toward  the 
window  to  watch. 

47.  CLOSE-UP  B0:B 

Watching  the  man  on  the  wing. 

48.  POVSHOT  TPEMAN 

We  cannot  make  out 
immediately,  what  he  is  doing. 
Thea  in  a flash  of  lightning,  we 
see  that  he  is  settling  himself 
astride  the  inboard  engine 
cowling  like  a man  mounting  a 
bucking  horse. 

49.  BOB 

Watching  apprehensh'^ely. 


50.  POVSHOT  TEE  MAN 

In  place  now.  A flash  of  lightning 
reveals  him  looking  across  his 
shoulder  at  Wilson  as  if  to  make 
sure  that  Wilson  is  watching. 
Seeing  that  he  is,  the  man  grins 
and  turns  back  to  the  engine. 

5L  BOB 

Staring  through  the  window.  A 
flare  of  lightning  whitens  his  face, 
making  him  grimace,  then  stiffea 
horrified  at  what  the  man  is  doing. 

52.  CLOSE  SHOT  THE  MAN 

Bent  over  the  cowling,  picking  at 
the  plates  that  sheathe^  the 
engine,  the  glare  of  th<3  exhaust 
reflected  on  his  troll-like  face. 
CAMERA  ZOOMS  IN  ori  his  simian 
hand  as  the  man  works  his  dark 
nails  under  the  edge  of  the 
riveted  seam  and  starts  to  pull  it 
up. 

53.  CLOSE-UP  B015 

Watching  in  shocked  honor.  He 
looks  around  in  frightened 
desperotioa  thea  realizing  the 
helplessness  of  his  positioa  can 
only  gaze  through  the  window 
agaia  one  finger  pressed  to  this 
trembling  lips. 


54.  THE  MAN  AND  BOB 

The  man  in  foreground,  working 
doggedly  at  the  cowling  plate,  in 
background,  observing  with 
impotent  dread.  Bob. 

FADE  OUT: 

END  ACT  ONE 

ACT  TWO 

FADE  IN: 

55.  EXT.  AIRLINER  NIGHT 

56.  THE  MAN  AND  BOB 

The  man  in  foreground,  working 
intently  on  the  cowling  plate;  Bob 
in  background,  watching. 

57.  BOB 

Tensely  indecisive;  thea  obmptly, 
deciding  what  he  must  do. 
CAMERA  DRAWS  BACK  as  he 
reaches  over  and  shakes  Ruth  by 
the  arm. 

BOB 

Honey,  wake  up. 

She  twitches,  stirs,  begins  to  fall 
asleep  again.  Bob  shakes  her 
harder. 

BOB 

Honey. 

Ruth  opens  her  eyes  in  startlement 
and  looks  at  him  having  trouble 
focusing.  Bob  looks  through  the 
window. 

58.  POVSHOT  MAN 

As  a flash  of  lightning  illuminates 
him  we  see  that  he  is  looking 
across  his  shoulder  at  Bob,  a 
malicious  smile  on  his  lips. 
Darkness.  A second  flash  of 
lightning  reveals  that  he  is  gone. 

59.  BOB  AND  RUTH 

Bob  starting  at  the  sight,  then 
relaxing  slightly. 

RUTH 

What  are  you  looking  at? 

He  turns  to  her  hesitantly  and  she 
sits  up,  rubbing  at  her  eyes. 

RUTH 

Bob? 

(beat) 

Is  it  the  storm?  Does  it  bother—? 
BOB 

(intermpting) 

No. 

(bracing  himself) 


You  remember  what  I said 
before?  About  thinking  that  I 
saw  something  outside? 

RUTH 

(uneasily) 

Yes. 

BOB 

(taking  a breath) 

Honey,  there's  a man  out  there. 

Ruth  stares  at  him,  too  shocked  to 
respond. 

BOB 

(with  rising  agitation) 

I don't  mean  a man— a human 
being.  I mean— 

(beside  himself) 

—I  don't  know  what  he  is,- 
maybe  a— What  did  they  call 
those  things  during  the  war? 
(beat) 

You  know— the  pilots? 

(pause;  remembering) 

Gremlins,-  gremlins.  You 
remember  those  stories  in  the 
papers— 

(breaks  oft-  tensely) 

Honey,  don't  look  at  me  like 
that. 


RUTH 

(faintly) 

Bob  '. . 

BOB 

(overlapping,-  voice  rising) 

I am  not  imagining  it! 

He  breaks  off  as  Ruth  glances 
around  startledly,  indicating  that 
he'll  wake  up  the  other 
passengers. 

BOB 

(softly,-  tightly) 

I am  not  imagining  it.  He's  out 
there  . . . 

Her  gaze  shifts  automatically  to 
the  window. 

BOB 

Don't  look,-  he  isn't  there  now. 
(realizing  what  he's  saying) 

He  . . . jumps  away  whenever 
anyone  might  see  him. 

(beat;  weakly) 

Except  me. 

(pause,-  almost  rabidly) 
r Honey,  he's  there. 

Her  lips  stir  but  she  can  soy 
nothing,  she  is  so  upset. 

BOB 

(shakily) 


Twilight  Zone  95 


Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet 


Look,  I— I fully  realize  what  this 
sounds  like. 

(abruptly,-  pitifully) 

Do  1 look  insane? 

She  clutches  his  hand  and  holds  it 
tightly. 

RUTH 

Honey,  ^ 

BOB  ^ 

(regaining  control-  spelling  it  out) 

1 know  I had  a mental 
breakdown.  1 know  1 had  it  on 
an  airplane.  1 know  it  looks,  to 
you,  as  if  the  same  thing's 
happening  again— but  it  isn't! 
I'm  sure  of  it. 

The  terrible  thing  is  that  he  doesn't 
sound  sure  at  all  because, 
increasingly,  he  is  wondering  if  he 
really  has  suffered  a relapse. 
Putting  into  words  what  he  has 
witnessed  makes  the  incredibility 
of  the  situation  all  the  more 
pointed  to  him-  he  has  to  figHl- 
hard  to  keep  believing  that  the 
man  outside  is  not  hallucinatory. 

BOB 

Look;  the  reason  I'm  telling  you 
this— isn't  just  to  worry  you-  you 
notice  I didn't  tell  you  before, 
because— 

RUTH 

(overlapping) 

But  I want  you  to  tell  me. 

The  tone  of  her  voice  makes  him 
very  aware  of  the  fact  that  she 
does,  indeed,  think  he  has  had  a 
relapse.  His  lips  begin  to  tremble,- 
he  presses  them  Together, 
stmggling  for  control. 

BOB 

(with  strained  softness) 

I didn't  tell  you  before  because 
I wasn't  sure  if  it  was  real  or  not. 
(beat) 

I am  sure  now.  It's  real.  There 
is  g man  out  there. 

(losing  confidence) 

Or  a— gremlia  or  whatever  he 
is— 

(with  a suddea  pained  laugh; 
brokenly) 

If  I described  him  to  you  you'd 
really  think  I was  gone. 

She  presses  close  to  him  suddenly, 
frightened,  clinging  to  him. 

RUTH 

(gently,-  lovingly) 


Honey,  no,-  no,-  it's  all  right, 
(stroking  his  cheek) 

It's  all  right  baby. 

He  closes  his  eyes,  fighting,  with  all 
his  strength  to  hold  onto  what  he 
believes  is  true.  After  a few 
moments,  he  takes  hold  of  her 
wrists  and  draws  her  away  from 
himselt  looking  at  her  gravely. 

BOB 

I know  your  intentions  are 
good.  I know  you  love  me— 
and  sympathize  with  me. 
(tightening) 

But  don't  patronize  me,  Ruth. 

I am  not  insane. 

RUTH 

(protesting) 

Did  I say— 

BOB 

(interrupting,-  tautly  pained) 

Does  it  have  to  be  said? 

It's  on  your  face,  in  your— 
(breaks  oft-  pause,-  tensely) 

For  the  last  time— 

(pointing  at  window) 

—that  . . . creature  is  out  there, 
(swallows  dryly) 

And  the  reason  I'm  telling  you 
...  is  that  he's  starting  to 
tamper  with  one  of  the  engines. 

She  only  stares  at  him-  pained, 
frightened,  concerned.  His  face 
distorts  with  sudden  fury. 

BOB 

(loudly) 

Look! 

She  grimaces  and  he  controls 
himself. 

BOB 

Look  . . . honey.  'Think  anything 
you  want.  Think  that  I belong 
in  a straitjacket  if  it  pleases  you. 

RUTH 

(anguished) 

Pleases  me—? 

BOB 

(overlapping) 

All  right  all  right-  I'm  sorry.  I 
didn't  mean  that.  What  I mean 
is— whatever  you  think  about 
me— that  I've  lost  my  mind, 
anything! 

He  controls  himself  and  continues. 
BOB 

All  I'm  asking  you  to  do  is  tell 
the  pilots  what  I've  said.  Ask 


them  to  kefjp  an  eye  on  the 
wings. 

(looking  at  her) 

If  they  see  nothing— fine.  I'll— 
commit  myselt  I'll— 

(a  deep  shaking  breath) 

But  if  they  clo. 

(pause) 

WeU? 

She  looks  at  him  in  distress,  not 
knowing  what  to  say. 

BOB 

(appalled  and  frightened) 

Won't  you  even  allow  the 
possibility  that— 

RUTH 

(cutting  in) 

All  right. 

(beat) 

I'll  tell  them. 

BOB 

I know  it  seems  a lot  to  ask,- 
it's  as  if  I'm— asking  you  to 
advertise  your  marriage  to  a— 
lunatic  but— 

He  breaks  off  as  she  puts  a hand 
on  his. 

RUTH 

I'll  tell  therr,  honey.  Just— sit 
tight.  I'll  tell  them. 

She  gets  up  and  moves  OUT  OF 
FRAME.  Bob  -w  atches  her  go 
without  encouragement-  he  has 
the  feeling  that  she  is  going  to 
pretend  to  tell  the  pilots  in  order  to 
pacify  him. 

60.  POVSHOT  RUTH 

At  the  front  of  the  cabia  glancing 
back  at  him  vrorriedly,  then 
knocking  on  the  door  to  the  pilot's 
compartment  In  a moment  it  is 
opened  by  the  copilot. 


6L  BOB 

Watching  thera  he  glances  aside 
as  the  stewardess  hurries  down 
the  aisle  to  fir.d  out  what  Ruth  is 
doing.  As  she  passes  Wilsoa 
she  glances  crt  him  with  a 
combination  of  anger  and  fear. 
He  watches  as  she  moves  OUT  OF 
FRAME. 

62.  POVSHOT  RUTH. 
COPILOT,  AND 
STEWARDESS 

Ruth  talking  to  the  copilot,  the 
stewardess  hurrying  to  join  them. 


96  Twilight  Zone 


S?»S1SSS!9BJ 


63.  BOB 

Watching  them,  then  suddenly, 
looking  toward  the  w;ndow  as  he 
catches  sight  ot— 

64.  THEMAN 

Landing  on  the  wing  like  some 
grotesque  ballet  dancer, 
ImmediatelY,  he  sets  to  work 
again,  straddling  the  <3ngine 
casing  with  his  thick,  bare  legs 
and  picking  at  the  plate. 

65.  BOB 

Watching.  He  stiilens  suddenly, 
catching  his  breath,  and  leaning 
toward  the  window  as  he  sees— 

66.  THEMAN 

Slowly  pulling  up  one  edge  ot  a 
plate. 

67.  BOB 

Reacting  to  the  sight.  Abmptly,  he 
lunges  to  his  teet,  sign(3ling  to  the 
three  in  front. 

BOB 

Here!  Quickly! 

68.  POVSHOT  Rirra. 
COPILOT,  AND 
STEWARDESS 

Jerking  around  to  look  at  him.  The 
copilot  moves  first,  pushing  past 
the  stewardess  and  luiching  up 
the  aisle.  A few  of  the  passengers, 
awakened  by  Wilson's  voice, 
look  around  in  sleepy  alarm,  the 
stewardess  hastening  :o  reassure 
them. 

69.  BOB 

BOB 

Hurry! 

He  glances  out  the  window  in 
time  to  see— 

70.  THEMAN 

Leaping  upward  and  out  of  sight. 

71.  FULL  SHOT 

BOB  AND  COPE  OT 
FEATURED 

Ruth,  in  the  backgroun  d,  returning 
quickly.  The  copilot  reaches  Bob. 

COPmOT 

(sternly) 

What's  going  on? 

BOB- 

He's  pulled  up  one  of  the 
cowling  plates! 


COPILOT 

(obviously  in  the  dark) 

He? 

BOB 

Didn't  my  wife—? 

(breaks  oft  understanding,- 
quickly) 

There's  a man  outside!  He  just—! 

COPILOT 
(cutting  in) 

Mister  Wilson,  keep  your  voice 
down 

BOB 

(off-balance) 

I'm  sorry— but— 

Ruth  comes  up  to  them  and  he 
glances  at  her  accusingly. 

COPILOT 

I don't  know  what's  going  on 
here,  but— 

He  breaks  off  as  Bob  turns  to  him 
angrily  and  points  out  the 
window. 

BOB 

Will  you  look? 

COPILOT 

Mr.  Wilson,  I'm  warning  you— 

Bob  stares  at  him  uncompre- 
hendingly,  then  drops  back  into 
the  seat  and  points  at  the  window 
with  a palsied  hand. 

BOB 

In  the  name  of—! 

(beat  tensely) 

Will  you  please  look? 

Drawing  in  an  agitated  breath. 


the  copilot  leans  over  and  looks 
out  His  gaze  shifts  coldly  to  Wilson 

COPILOT 

WeU? 

Bob  stares  at  him  a moment  not 
understanding,-  then,  abmptly, 
turns  his  head  to  look  out 

72.  POV  SHOT  ENGINE 

In  a fla^  of  lightning  we  can  see 
that  the  plate,  which  the  man  had 
pulled  up,  is  in  its  normal  state. 

73.  BACK  TO  SCENE 

BOB 

(stunned) 

Oh,  now,  wait  . . . 

(turns  to  copilot) 

I saw  him  pull  that  plate  up. 

They  stare  at  him  Ruth  with 
numbed  apprehension 

BOB 

(teeth  clenched) 

I said  I saw  him  pull  that  plate 
up, 

Ruth  sits  beside  him  hurriedly  and 
takes  his  hand,  her  expression  one 
of  torment.  Bob  glances  at  her, 
then  back  at  the  copilot. 

BOB 

(voice  breaking) 
r-  Listen  I sow  him! 


COPILOT  . 

(leaning  over;  confidentially) 

Mr.  Wilson  please.  All  right,  you 
saw  him.  But  remember,  there 


Twilight  Zone  97 


Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet 


are  other  people  aboard.  We 
mustn't  alarm  them. 

Bob  is  too  shaken  to  understand  at 
first. 

BOB 

You— you  mean— you've  seen 
him  then? 

COPILOT 

(agreeing  to  anything) 

Of  course  we  have.  But  we  , 
don't  want  to  frighten  the 
passengers;  you  can 
understand  that. 

Ruth  looks  at  him  momentarily 
stunned. 

BOB 

(gratefully  cooperative) 

Of  course,  of  course.  I don't 
want  to— 

Abmptly,  it  comes  to  him  and  he 
presses  his  lips  into  a hard,  thin 
line,  looking  at  the  copilot  with 
malevolent  eyes.  ^ 

BOB 

(coldly) 

I understand. 

COPILOT 

(mollifyingly) 

The  thing  we  hove  to 
remember— 

BOB 

(cutting  in) 

You  can  stop  now. 

RUTH 

(not  exactly  sure  what's  going  on) 
Bob- 


COPILOT 

(simultaneously) 

Sir? 

BOB 

(shudders) 

Get  out  of  here. 

COPILOT 

Mr.  Wilson  what—? 

BOB 

Will  you  stop? 

He  turns  away  and  looks  out  at 
the  wing,  eyes  like  stones. 

RUTH 

Honey,  what  js  it? 

Before  she  can  finish.  Bob  turns 
back  to  the  copilot  and  glares  at 
him. 

BOB 

I won't  say  another  word, 
(cutting  off  the  copilot) 

I'll  see  us  crash  first. 

RUTH 

Bob. 

COPILOT 

Mr.  Wilson  try  to  understand 
our  position. 

He  breaks  off  as  Wilson  twists 
away  and  stares  out  venomously 
through  the  window. 

74.  BOB 

Staring  through  the  window;  in  it 
we  see  reflected  Ruth  and  the 
copilot.  After  several  moments  of 
silence,  the  copilot  puts  his  hand 


on  Ruth's  shoulder  and  gestures, 
with  his  head  toward  the  rear  of 
the  cabin.  Rutli  hesitates,  then  os 
the  copilot  looks  insistent,  rises,  The 
plane  is  bucking  sharply  now 
and  the  copilot  takes  her  arm  to 
support  her. 

RUTH 
(to  Bob) 

I'll  be  right— 

She  stops  as  tLie  copilot  squeezes 
her  arm,  then  as  she  glances  at 
him  shakes  his  head  a little.  Bob, 
observing  all  this  in  the  window, 
tightens  his  mouth.  As  they  move 
OUT  OF  FRAMS,  he  suddenly 
covers  his  eyes  with  a shaking 
hand. 

BOB 

(whispering) 

He  ^ pull  it  up.  He  did! 

After  a few  mcDments,  he  looks 
across  his  shoulder. 

75.  POVSHOT 

RUTH  AND  COPILOT 

Talking  at  the  rear  of  the  pitching 
cabin.  The  copilot  hands  Ruth 
something. 

76.  BOB 

Turns  back  to  the  front  and  looks 
through  the  window  again.  The 
storm  is  getting  more  violent. 

77.  POVSHOT  THE  MAN 

Landing  on  the  wing,  he  stoops 
by  the  engine  and  grins  at  Wilson. 
Reaching  dovm,  he  pulls  up  the 
plate  without  effort,  starts  peeling  it 
back. 

78.  BOB 

Reacting  in  shock.  He  glances 
around  as  if  for  help,  thea 
realizing  the  hopelessness  of  it 
looks  out  agai  n. 

79.  POVSHOT  THE  MAN 

The  glow  of  th.e  engine  reflected 
on  his  bestial  face  as  he  starts  to 
reach  inside  it 

80.  BOB 

Watching  in  fi  ozen  dread.  Outside, 
the  engine  falters  momentarily, 
making  him  t/htch,  grimacing.  He 
presses  against  the  window, 
staring. 

8L  POVSEIOT  MAN 

On  his  knees,  poking  a curious 


98  Twilight  Zone 


hand  into  the  Innards  ot  the 
engine.  Agaia  it  faiters,  sparking. 

82.  BOB 

Turning  from  the  window  to 
look  around.  To  his  shocked 
astonishment  no  one  tias  noticed,' 
he  makes  a noise  of  disbelieving 
panic.  Abmptly,  he  looks  toward 
the  rear  of  the  cabia 

83.  ANOTHER  ANGLE 
INCLUDING  RUTH 

Returning  unevenly,  a cup  of 
water  in  her  hand.  Bob  jerks 
around  to  look  througb.  the 
window  again. 

84  POV  SHOT  Mi^N 

Looking  toward  Bob,  th.ea  with  an 
crwful  gria  pressing  thei  plate 
back  into  positioa  standing  and 
ascending  OUT  OF  FR/lME  like  a 
marionette  jerked  upward  off  its 
stage. 

85.  BOB 

Staring  through  the  window.  He 
tightens  as  Ruth  sits  do’vn  beside 
him. 

RUTH 

Bob? 

(as  he  looks  at  her  tensely) 

Honey,  I was  going  to  tell  him 
when  you— 

BOB 

(intermpting) 

Were  you? 

She  swallows,  hesitates,  then  holds 
out  a capsule  different  from  the 
one  she  gave  him  earlier. 

BOB 

(tightly) 

For  me? 

RUTH 

(close  to  tears) 

Please,  Bob  . . . 

He  looks  at  her,  delibeiating,  then 
abmptly  takes  the  capsule  and 
puts  it  in  his  mouth,  drinks  the 
water.  He  drops  the  cu]3  and  turns 
on  his  side. 

RUTH 

You'll  sleep  now,  darling,  and— 

She  breaks  off  as  he  stiffens  when 
she  rubs  his  arm.  After  a while,  still 
exhausted,  she  settles  bierself  and 
closes  her  eyes,  holdinsj  onto  his 
arm  Bob's  eyes  shift  toward  the 
aisle,  then  suddenly  close. 


86.  DOWN  ANGLE  SHOT 
BOB  AND  RUTH 

In  a moment  the  copilot  and 
stewardess  ENTER  FRAME,  coming 
from  opposite  directions,  and 
pause  by  the  seats,  the  floor 
bucking  beneath  them.  They 
converse  in  whispers. 

COPILOT 

(exhales,  relieved) 

Boy. 

STEWARDESS 

What  did  you  do,  have  his 
wife  give  him  one  of  those 
capsules? 

COPILOT 

(nods) 

He'!!  be  out  for  hours. 

STEWARDESS 

(gratefully) 

Thank  hecrven  for  that.  The 
way  this  storm  is  going. 

They  exchange  a smile  and 
move  OUT  OF  FRAME,  the 
stewardess  toward  the  back  of  the 
cabin,  the  copilot  toward  the  front. 
After  several  moments,  Wilson 
looks  around  cautiously. 

87.  CLOSE  ON  BOB 

Removing  the  capsule  from  his 
mouth  and  pushing  it  into  the 
holder  behind  the  seat  in  front  of 
him.  He  looks  through  the  window 
with  apprehensioa  staring  as— 

88.  THE  MAN 

Lands  on  the  wing  and,  with  a 
grin  at  Bob,  starts  peeling  back  the 
cowling  plate  again. 

89.  BOB 

Watching  helplessly.  Now  he 
looks  around,  trying  to  think  of 
something  to  do.  Disengaging 
himself  from  Ruth  he  stands  and 
looks  around  further,  stiffening  as 
he  sees— 

90.  STATE  POLICE  OFFICER 

Several  seats  dowa  located  on 
the  aisle  across  the  way,-  he  is 
asleep.  CAMERA  ZOOMS  IN  on  his 
revolver  in  its  button-down  holster. 

9L  BOB 

Suffering  from  acute  indecision.  He 
looks  toward  the  window,  then 
realizes  that  he  has  no  choice.  He 
looks  around  to  make  sure  no  one 
is  observing,  thea  bracing  himselt 
eases  past  Ruth  and  into  the  aisle. 


92.  UP  ANGLE  SHOT  STATE 
POLICE  OFnCER  AND  BOB 

The  right  side  of  the  officer  in 
foreground.'  Bob,  in  background, 
approaching  stealthily  along  the 
pitching  aisle.  He  reaches  the 
officer  and  hesitates  a moment, 
mnning  a trembling  hand  across 
his  mouth.  Agaia  he  braces 
himself  and,  bending  over, 
reaches  down  for  the  pistol.  He 
gets  the  holster  flap  unfastened 
and  starts  taking  out  the  revolver. 
The  officer  stirs  and  Bob  jerks  back 
his  hand,  shrinking  away.  After  a 
few  moments,  the  officer  subsides 
into  heavy  sleep  once  more  and 
Bob  regains  the  courage  to  go  on. 
Moving  with  nerve-wracked 
slowness,  he  succeeds  in 
withdrawing  the  revolver  from  its 
holster  and,  hastily,  turns  back 
toward  his  seat. 

93.  CLOSE  ON  BOB 

As  he  sinks  back  on  his  seat, 
glances  worriedly  at  Ruth,  then 
looks  through  the  window. 
CAMERA  DRAWS  AROUND  and  he 
reacts,  seeing  that  the  glass  is 
lashed  by  rain  now.  He  squints 
through  it  trying  hard  to  see. 

94  POVSHOT  man 

Illuminated  by  lightning,  watching 
for  Wilson's  return.  Seeing  hira  he 
grins  and  leans  over  the  engine 
agaia  pulling  the  cowling  plate 
back  a little  more  and  preparing 
to  probe  at  the  engine. 


95.  BOB 

Swallowing  dryly,  he  begins  to 
raise  the  pistol  then  lowers  it 
unable  to  aim. 

BOB 

(worriedly) 

I can't  see  . . , 

(touching  the  window) 

It's  too  thick. 

Close  to  total  panic  now,  he  looks 
out  the  window  suddenly. 

96.  POV  SHOT  THE  MAN 

Seen  in  a flash  of  lightning,  his 
hand  inside  the  engine.  He  is 
looking  across  his  shoulder  at  Bob, 
grinning,  an  emption  of  sparks 
casting  light  across  his  animal 
features.  The  engine  smokes  a 
little. 


..I 

. % 


Twilight  Zone  99 


Nightmare  at  20,000  Feet 


97.  BOB 

A look  of  doomed  horror  on  his 
face.  Suddenly,  motivated  by 
absolute  desperatioa  he  looks 
at— 

98.  EMERGENCY  DOOR 
HANDLE 

A transparent  plastic  cover  over  it. 

99.  BOB  T 

Staring  at  the  handle.  Now  he 
looks  at  the  man  and,  in  a 
moment  makes  his  decisioa  With 
a sharp  movement  he  pulls  the 
plastic  cover  free  and  sets  it  down. 
He  puts  his  hand  on  the  door 
handle  and  tests  it  it  does  not 
move  downward  but  has  upward 
ploy.  Abmptly,  he  sets  the  revolver 
in  his  lap  and  leaning  over,  starts 
to  fasten  Ruth's  safety  belt  then 
stops,  uncertain  After  a moment 
he  hides  the  pistol  and  shakes 
Ruth's  arm. 

' BOB  ' 

Honey? 

(as  she  murmurs  in  her  sleep) 
Would  you  get  me  a drink  of 
water,  please? 

(as  she  opens  her  eyes) 

Water?  Please? 

She  looks  at  him  groggily,  then 
smiles  and  nods  and  pushing  to 
her  feet  moves  off  weavingly 
down  the  bucking  aisle.  As  soon 
as  she  has  gone.  Bob  fastens  his 
seat  belt  securely,  glancing  out  at 
the  man  as  he  does.  Now  he 
retrieves  the  pistol  takes  hold  of 
the  door  handle,  and  steels 
himself.  Abmptly,  he  glances 
across  his  shoulder. 

lOO.  REVERSE  SHOT 

INCLUDING  RUTH  AND  THE 
STEWARDESS 

Ruth  watching  apprehensively  as 
the  stewardess  comes  hurrying 
down  the  aisle,  then  freezes  in  her 
tracks,  a look  of  stupefied  horror 
distending  her  features.  She  raises 
a hand  as  if  imploring  Wilson 
then  suddenly  cries  out 

STEWARDESS 
Mr.  Wilson  no[ 

lOl.  BOB 

BOB 

Stand  back! 

Face  tightening,  he  wrenches  up 


the  handle  with  his  left  hand.  With 
a hissing  roar,  the  emergency 
door  flies  off. 

102.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOB 

Enveloped  by  a monstrous 
suction  his  head  and  shoulders 
outside  the  cabin.  For  a moment 
his  eardmms  almost  bursting  from 
the  thunder  of  the  engines,  his 
eyes  near-blinded  by  arctic  winds, 
he  forgets  everything 
but  present  suffering.  Then 
remembering,  he  sees  the  man 

103.  POVSHOT  THE  MAN 

Walking  across  the  wing,  gnarled 
form  leaning  forward,  talonlike 
hands  outstretched  in  eagerness. 

104  BOB 

Aiming  the  revolver  with  all  the 
strength  he  can  muster  and 
starting  to  fire  repeatedly,  the 
detonations  no  more  than 
popping  noises  in  the  roaring 
violence  of  the  air. 

105.  POV  SHOT  MAN 

Flailing  backward,  then 
suddenly,  disappearing  with  the 
appearance  of  a paper  doll 
swept  off  by  a gale. 

106.  BOB 

Despite  physical  agony,  reacting 
with  reliet  Suddenly,  there  is  a 
bursting  numbness  in  his  brain. 

The  pistol  is  pulled  from  his  failing 
grip  by  the  wind  and  he  passes 
out.  DARKNESS— and  a cessation  of 
all  noise.  In  several  moments,  we 
hear  shuffling  sounds,  a faint  swirl 
of  unintelligible  voices.  Finally, 
light— and  a gradual  focusing  in 
on— 


107.  CEILING  OF  AIRLINER 
CABIN  BOB’S  POV 
NIGHT 

Moving  by  overhead.  CAMERA 
REACHES  the  door  where  the 
stewardess  and  copilot  look  down 
their  expressions  grave. 

108.  CLOSE  SHOT  BOB 

Lying  on  a stretcher,  being  carried 
through  the  doorway  of  the 
airliner.  He  looks  around,  reacting 
with  relief  as  he  sees— 

109.  RUTH  AND  AMBULANCE 
ATTENDANT  BOB’S  POV 

Ruth  following  the  attendant, 
smiling  down  comfortingly  at  Bob. 


UO.  BOB 

Smiling  back  at  her  weakly,  then 
turning  his  head.  The  field  level  is 
reached. 

MAN'S  VOICE 
(in  background) 

Nuttiest  way  o'  tryin'  to  commit 
suicide  I e\  er  heard  of. 

Bob  stiffens  and,  twisting  his  head 
around,  looks  back  toward  the 
engine  with  -vrhich  the  gremlin 
was  tampering.  Seeing  what  he's 
looking  for,  hej  sighs,  relaxes,  and 
turns  his  head  back  once  more. 

As  the  stretcher  is  carried  across 
the  field,  Ruth  comes  INTO  FRAME 
and  takes  his  hand,  walking 
beside  the  stretcher. 

RUTH 

It's  all  right  now. 

BOB 
I know. 

(amused) 

But  I'm  the  only  one  who  does 
right  now. 

She  looks  confused  for  a moment 
then  lets  it  go  and  smiles  at  him 
again  CAMEllA  HOLDS  as  they 
move  oft  then,  after  a moment 
starts  PANNING  UPWARD  SLOWLY 
toward  the  wing,  RETAINING  Bob 
and  Ruth  and  the  ambulance 
attendants. 

SERLING'S  VOICE 

The  flight  cf  Mr.  Robert  Wilson 
has  ended  now— a flight  not 
only  from  point  A to  point  B but 
also,  from  the  fear  of  recurring 
mental  bre  okdown  Mr.  Wilson 
has  that  fear  no  longer— 
though,  for  the  moment  he  is, 
as  he  has  said,  alone  in  this 
assurance.  Happily,  his 
conviction  will  not  remain 
isolated  too  much  longer. 

CAMERA  STOPS  on  the  inboard 
engine.  In  background,  we  see 
Wilson  being  carried  off , his  wife 
beside  him.  In  foreground,  we  see 
the  engine  plate  pulled  back,  fire- 
blackened  rr.etal 

SERLING'S  VC'ICE 

For,  happily,  tangible 
manifestation  is,  very  often  left 
as  evidenc:e  of  trespass— even 
from  so  intangible  a quarter— 
as  the  Twilight  Zone. 

FADE  OUT: 

THE  END  IS 


100  Twilight  Zone 


We're  proud  of  Rod 
Serling's  The  Twilight 


Zone  Magazine.  Having 

JUST  CELEBRATED  OirR 

Third  Anniversai^y,  our 

CIRCULATION  IS  GROWING 
DAILY  AND  THE  DENtAND 
FOR  BACK  ISSUES  HAS  NEVER 
BEEN  STRONGER,  If  YOU'rE 
A DEALER  OR  RETAII.ER  AND 
HAVE  DIFFICULTY  ORDERING 
OUR  UNIQUE  MAGAZINE 
THROUGH  REGULAR 
CHANNELS,  YOUR  WORRIES 

ARE  OVER.  Twilight  Zone 


IS  NOW  AVAILABLE  DIRECT 
FROM  US,  IN  NON- 
RETURNABLE  COPIES,  AT 
A VERY  SPECIAL  PRICIE. 

Copies  are  delivered 

C.O.D.,  AND  THE  MINIMUM 
ORDER  IS  SINFULLY  LOW. 

Don't  miss  out  on  this 
EXCITING  offer!  W]IITE  TO 
Judy  Linden  at  thie 

ADDRESS  BELOW  AND 
REQUEST  OUR  FREE 
INFORMATION  PACKET, 

WITH  NO  OBLIGATIOl'I 
WHATSOEVER,  Do  IT 

today! 


Judy  Linden.  Direct  Sales 
Twilight  Zone  Magazine 
800  Second  Avenue 
New  York,  NY  10017 


TZ  CLASSIFIED 

Q 

Try  a TZ  Classified! 

— 1 

UJ 

Your  classified  advertisement  in  Twilight  Zone 
puts  you  in  touch  with  our  more  than 

rsj 

- 

HALF  A MILLION  READERS 

91.4%  of  whom  ordered  products  by  mail 

Li_ 

in  the  past  year.* 

o 

- 

Advertise  in 

CO 

ImEKSTI/bNE 

> 

CO 

Magazine 

CO 

< 

and  give  your  ads  that  extra-dimensional 

edge:  low  cost  and  high  efficiency. 

CO 

1 

For  further  information,  contact 

- 

u 

Marina  Despotakis,  Classified  Advertising 
Manager 

~n 

TZ  Publications,  Inc., 

rsj 

800  Second  Avenue,  New  York,  NY  10017 
(212)  986-9600 

m 

- 

'Source  Magazine  Project  Group,  Inc, 

TZ  Classifieds  Get  Results! 

C» 

DON’T  GET  LEFT  BEHIND! 

If  you’re  moving,  please  let 
us  know  6 weeks  in  advance. 

Fill  in  the  attached  form  and 
moil  tO; 

Rod  Selling’s  The  Twilight  Zone  Magazine 

P.O.Box  252  

Mt.  Morris,  IL  61054-0252 


New  mailing  address 

Name 

Address 

City 


Twilight  Zone  101 


-■jr^ 

K 


^ History’s 

*’  most  sinister ; £ , 

hitchhiker  .'. . , 

-iT*  A seven-foot-tali  one-eyed  indian 
assassin  ... 

And  an  eight-year-oid  girl  who  starts  r\ 
fires  with  her  mind.  . ,* 

Pius  a talk  with  Leonard  NimOy,  who  debuts  as 
a director  in  Star  Trek  III:  The  Search  for  Spock  ...  , 

A preview  of  The  Last  Cat  Book— by  (of  aii  peopie)  Conan’s  Robert  E. 

Howard  ...  A supernatural  classic  from  the  mistress  of  American 
horror,  Shirley  Jackson  ...  An  advance  peek  at  Gremlins,  a horror 
film  from  that  old  Twilight  Zone  team,  Joe  Dante  and  Steven 
Spielberg  . . . And  seven  tales  of  haunted  houses,  madhouses,  ancieijit 


Cathay,  and  the  undreamed-of  future. 


Don’t  miss  the  July-August  Twilight  Zone  — 
a new  dimension  in  entertainment  for  just  $2.50 


TZ  classifieds  bring  results!  Multiply  our  guaranteed  circulation  of  147,000  by  our  4.36 
readers  per  copy*  and  you’ll  see  why  the  classified  and  personal  advertisements  in 
Twilight  Zone  are  one  of  the  magazine  world’s^biggest  bargains.  The  cost,  payable  in  ad- 
vance, is  $1.25  per  word  ($1.50  for  words  FULL’/  CAPITALIZED);  phone  numbers  with 
area  codes  count  as  one  word.  (No  discounts  are  applicable.)  Please  send  your  ad  copy, 
with  remittance,  to  Twilight  Zone  Magazine,  Attn:  Marina  Despotakis,  Classified  Ad 
Manager,  800  Second  Avenue,  New  York,  NY  10017,  Closing  date  for  July/August  1984 
issue  is  April  1 , 1984. 


BOOKS/MAGAZINES/CATALOGS 


STEPHEN  KING’S  NEW  12,000-WORD  HOR- 
ROR STORY  GRAMMA  headlines  WEIRDBOOK 
#19:  $5.75  or  FREE  with  subscription  ($23,25). 
[Details,  204  stamp],  WEIRDBOOK,  Box  149, 
Buffalo,  NY  14226-0149. 

ALIEN  INTELLIGENCE:  Science  Fiction  News- 
letter For  Kids,  By  Kids.  News,  Stories,  Reviews. 
$4.00 — 6 issues.  Mail:  20  Bramble  Brook  Road, 
Ardsley,  NY  10502. 

CBS  MYSTERY  THEATERS— Over  700  shows 
on  reels  or  cassettes.  Best  quality,  fastest  ser- 
vice. Catalog  $1 .00.  P.O.  Box  3509-TZ,  Lakeland, 
FL  33802. 

TV  GUIDES  1953-1984.  Every  issue  available. 
Catalog  $5.  Box  20-TZ,  Macomb,  IL  61455. 

FANTASY  JEWELRY — Free  catalog  of  dragons, 
unicorns,  medieval  weapons,  etc.  The  Silver 
Dragon,  36  Stadden  St.,  Providence,  Rl  02907. 
TWILIGHT  ZONE  COMIC  BOOKS— 1961-1980, 
all  available.  Send  $1.00  (refundable  wiyp  pur- 
chase). Phil  Grodsky,  38  E.  Beech,  Long  Beach, 
NY  11561.  ' 


I ★ SCRIPT-CITY  ★ I 


Film  & T.V.  Scripts— Largest  Selection— 
—Lowest  Prices!!!  Huge  Sci-Fi  & Horror 
Coliections.  Send  for  FREE  22  page 
cafaiog... Receive  FREE  introductory  offer! 
Script-City,  1765  N,  Highland 
#760TZ,  Hollywood,  CA.  90028 

Put  a warehouse  full  of  fantasy  & comic  art 
books  in  your  mailbox!  Bud  Plant  Inc.  has  the  big- 
gest selection  of  fascinating  books  and  comics 
available.  Send  $1  for  a complete  catalog  to:  Bud 
Plant  Inc.,  PO  Box  1886TZ,  Grass  Valley,  CA 
95945. 

SELLING  TV  GUIDES  1949-1983,  DARK  SHAD- 
OWS ITEMS,  TV  AVENGERS,  TV  PRISONER, 
MOVIE  AND  TV  PAPERBACKS,  HARDCOVER 
BOOKS,  PLAYBOYS,  HERO  AND  SCIENCE  FIC- 
TION PULPS  AND  MAGAZINES,  COMIC 
BOOKS,  U.N.C.L.E.  MOVIE  MAGAZINES, 
CEREAL  PREMIUMS,  MOVIE  MERCHANDISE, 
ETC.  1900-1984.  CATALOGUES  $1.00.  Rogofsky, 
Box  107Z,  Glen  Oaks,  NY  11004. 


MISCELLANEOUS 

THOR  AND  ODIN  LIVE!  DISCOVER  20TH  CEN- 
TURY VIKING  RELIGION.  Send  $3:  Wotan,  3125 
19th  St.,  Suite  297-L,  Bakersfield,  CA  93301. 

Footsteps:  Quarterly  weird  fiction  magazine 
needs  stories,  poems,  reviews,  essays  and  il- 
lustrations for  spring  edition.  Winter  edition  now 
available  ($2.50).  Bill  Munster,  Box  63,  Westkill, 
NY  12492. 


EDUCATION 


WRITE  FOR  PLEASURE  AND  REWARDS.  Send 
for  free,  no  obligation  writing  aptitude  test. 
Analyze  your  writing  potential.  Writers  Institute 
(a  home  study  school).  Dept.  127-56-84,  112 
West  Boston  Post  Road,  Mamaroneck,  NY  10543. 


SERVICES 


NEED  CREDIT  HELP?  Great  Visa,  MasterCard, 
loans  and  much  more!  Fast,  easy!  Guaranteed! 
Write  today:  AMERICAN  CREDIT  HELP,  3909 
South  Blvd.,  Suite  208J,  Charlotte,  NC  28209, 

Fiction  Writers:  Prcfessional  editor  now  offers 
ms.  critique  service.  Send  SASE  for  details,  rate 
card.  Ficciones,  c/o  334  W.  87th  St.,  #3C,  New 
York,  NY  10024. 

LOOKING  FOR  A PUBLISHER?  Learn  how  you 
can  have  your  book  published,  promoted,  distri- 
buted. Send  for  free  booklet,  HP-7,  Vantage 
Press,  516  W.  34th  St.,  New  York,  NY  10001.